


The Nine Lives of Sir Leon

by egnanbuny



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:24:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egnanbuny/pseuds/egnanbuny
Summary: The missing year between Series 2 and Series 3, from the perspective of everyone's favourite (possibly immortal?) background knight...Adventure, dragons, battles, bromance, rescuing maidens, an unusually high work-related mortality rate: your classic Merlin red-cloak-knightly stuff. Definitely no sorcery at all (*ahem*).Be warned that there is both graphic violence and depiction of the psychological aftermath.Written as a present for a friend; got a bit out of hand. Blame/thank her for posting. Bonus points to anyone who spots the very geeky Arthurian easter eggs!





	1. In which we learn that dragons are no fun at all.

They ran to the battlements with Arthur leading, through the waste and destruction of Camelot, the mass of bodies and fire and frightened people running. If Leon had expected that the sight of the knights heading to attack would bring some comfort to the people, he would have been disappointed. The people were far too frightened to even notice the red-and-gold cloaks hurrying in the opposite direction. 

“I know you’re tired, but make one last effort for me,” shouted Arthur, briefly turning back to face them. “Every shot _must_ count.”

They reached the battlements, and there was a brief respite from the noise and the shouting and the screams. Below them, Camelot burned, adding a haze of smoke to the clouds skittering across the moon. And there, by the moon, the dark shape. Death and destruction lent form, wings straining against the night air. The dragon was coming.

Leon swallowed as he watched it approach, his crossbow heavy in his hands. 

“Flame up!” shouted Arthur.

The night was quiet enough to hear the rustles and clinks as the knights obeyed his order. Beside him, Leon caught the eye of Alfric - wide and frightened.

“Stay strong.” Arthur sounded confident, but he didn’t turn his head from where he was watching the dragon approach. “Tonight is not your night to die - I will make sure of that.”

The dragon dipped its wings and swooped downwards, close enough for them to see the spines along its tail and the glow of its burning orange eyes - the same colour as the flames gnawing at the town beneath it. Leon could hear nothing but his own heart, pounding against his chest. How was he expecting to aim straight when his hands were shaking so much? 

“Hold firm,” said Arthur. Leon caught the undercurrent of fear in his voice. Strangely it made him feel better. Arthur was frightened, too. They were all frightened. It would be stupid not to be. But that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t prevail. 

“Hold.” Beside him, Leon could feel Alfric shaking, but the younger knight didn’t move from his position. Leon stayed where he was. He was afraid, terribly afraid, and every fibre of his being was screaming at him to run and hide, but he was a knight of Camelot. Was _proud_ to be a knight of Camelot. And he would live and die as a knight of Camelot. 

“Hold!”

Alfric was gone, leaning back against the crenellation, his eyes closed in fear, unable to look any longer. Too young. Leon didn’t blame him. Above them, the dragon lowered its head and roared, and he could see rows of teeth above him gleaming dull white in the firelight.

“Now!” roared Arthur, and the shrieks of crossbow bolts being released surrounded them as the dragon came on like a storm of fury and fire. At the last moment it rose, avoiding the bolts, and the next second Leon had thrown himself down against the ramparts and there was fire everywhere, the heat of it washing all of the thoughts clean from his mind, because there was nothing but heat and light and the cold rough stone of the wall against his cheek. 

And then it was gone. 

He heard a moan beside him and turned to see Alfric, crouched down, cradling his arm in his hands. The section of skin he could see below the chainmail was blackened and twisted. Alfric hadn’t seen the fire coming - hadn’t had time to avoid it. His arm must have been caught by the flame. He whimpered.

Leon crawled over to him and pushed up the chainmail, ignoring Alfric’s scream. The metal was still hot, burningly hot, and there were little charred imprints of the rings on Alfric’s skin. Hadn’t he been wearing padding under it? Foolish boy. Perhaps there hadn’t been time to dress properly before the call came to arms, but the mistake might very well cost him his arm. Leon himself wished that he’d had time to find his gloves before he’d run out - holding the chainmail free of Alfric’s skin was burning his hand. He used his cloak to hold it instead. 

Alfric was trembling. His eyes were wide and he was obviously terrified. Leon glanced around at the other knights. 

Osney had been too slow to duck; he was lying slumped against the battlements while two of the others shook his shoulder desperately, trying to get a response. Both Benifred and Marcus looked to be in shock, crouching wide-eyed and immobile despite the chaos around them. Ulfswyn was clutching his shoulder in agony; clearly he had been too slow as well. The others seemed unharmed. Arthur jumped to his feet.

“All those who can, with me! The beast is heading for the lower town,” he shouted.

Leon forced Alfric to look him in the eye, then took his unburnt hand and placed it firmly on the chainmail, keeping it free of the damaged skin. “Go to Gaius,” he said, clearly, hoping that Alfric wasn’t panicking too much to hear him. “Keep the mail off it and go to Gaius.”

He left Alfric there, picking up his crossbow as he ran to follow the prince. Hopefully the boy would have enough sense to follow his words, but Leon knew as well as anyone what the pain of a wound could do to reason. He had better things to do that nursemaid a rookie knight, however. Not a single one of their crossbow bolts had hit the dragon. And if it was heading for the lower town… that was homes, and businesses. Wooden buildings. The creature seemed bent on maximum destruction. 

They ran into the main courtyard of the castle, into the smoke and fire. It was chaos; abandoned carts strewn everywhere, people running, flames… And above them, the dark shape of the dragon wheeled and turned.

“Clear the square!” shouted Arthur.

Leon knelt to load his crossbow. If he was going to die in fire, he was at least going to try to take down the bloody beast with him. His earlier fear was gone now. In its place, a pure silken rage, a rage which made his thoughts clear and his senses sharp. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur pause.

“Gwen…” Leon followed his gaze to the woman, standing by the well, apparently oblivious to the danger. Nearby, someone screamed, hysterical. Leon heard the rush of wings as the dragon dropped from above them.

“Guinevere!” Arthur dropped his gaze from the dragon and ran, just as Guinevere turned, looked up, and ran as well. Leon started after him but was suddenly buffeted back by a monumental gust of air. Off balance, he fell, sprawling on the ground, his crossbow knocked from his hands. A huge shadow swept above them. 

He heard Arthur shout in pain. 

Leon tried to scramble to his feet, but at the last second he heard a splintering crash and had to dive out of the way as a section of wall came down almost on top of him. He spotted his crossbow a few metres away and lunged for it, as more stones fell. There was a jarring _clunk_ , a flash of pain, and suddenly he was on his knees, dizzy, struggling to focus, his vision confused shapes around him and no sound but a high-pitched whine in his ears. He shook his head with a searing burst of pain. Where were the other knights? Where was everything else? Where was he?

Darkness fluttered in around him, but he fought it. His fingers found something wet on the back of his head. He almost lost his balance and pitched forwards, but caught himself at the last moment. His vision was beginning to return. The sound was beginning to come back. 

Leon struggled to his feet, ignoring the dizziness, and looked around him. Two of the knights who had come down from the battlements were lying motionless among the rubble. A further two sat, dazed and confused, a few metres away. The other three had reached the colonnade before the walls had collapsed - Egfred was staring out at them from behind a column, wide-eyed and fearful. Leon started towards him and stumbled to his knees again. 

Egfred ran out to him and helped him back to the safety of the walkway, one arm around his shoulders. 

“What happened?” gasped Leon, as Olyvar stood up to take him and Egfred ran out again, presumably to help one of the others.

“Dragon,” said Olyvar. “The balcony collapsed on us.”

“The prince?”

Olyvar shrugged. “Saw him and the serving-girl fall. The dragon… but then they got up again. I think they made it to the far side. I couldn’t tell. Everything was falling.”

Leon’s knees gave out from under him and he had to grab his friend’s shoulder to stop himself from collapsing. Olyvar grimaced. 

“I think you should sit down, Leon,” he said, lowering them both to the ground. “You get hit on the head?”

Leon felt the lump in his skull and looked at the fingers which came away wet with blood. “Yes.”

“Maybe go to Gaius?” 

“No. Not yet. The dragon-“

“The dragon’s gone, Leon. It’s burning the lower town. There’s nothing we can do.”

“No!”

Egfred dumped another knight beside them, and ran out again. The other knight groaned. It wasn’t one Leon recognised, but the man had a thin trail of blood running down his forehead, over his nose, smeared across his chin. His eyes were unfocused, but his hand reached out blindly to grip Leon’s arm. 

“Is it dead? Did we kill it?”

“No, we didn’t kill it,” said Olyvar, grimly. The knight dropped Leon’s arm and slumped back, with what sounded like a sob. 

“I can’t do any more.”

“I know.” Olyvar sounded frustrated. “None of us can.”

“It’s burning the lower town,” said Egfred, arriving with someone else draped across his shoulders. “There are fires everywhere.”

Leon shook his head to get rid of the ringing in his ears. It didn’t work. “We need to organise water. We have to protect the houses for as long as we can.”

“And then what? Unless we can kill it or drive it off, Camelot will burn all the same,” said Olyvar, his voice edged with despair. 

“So we kill it,” said Leon, far more confidently than he felt.

“You saw what our bolts did to it - nothing! There’s nothing we can do!”

“It avoided the bolts. Next time we’ll hit it.”  
“Next time,” echoed the injured knight, from where he was slumping against the ruined wall.“There won’t _be_ a next time.”

“What’s your name, sir?” Leon could almost feel the other man’s despair, and it was dangerously catching.

The man tipped his head back and spoke with his eyes closed. “Edric.”

“ _Sir_ Edric _._ You are a knight of Camelot,” said Leon, stressing the words slowly and clearly. “You are what the people are looking up to. You _cannot_ give up.”

He opened his eyes, blinking against the blood which was trickling down over his cheek, and stared at Leon with eyes which were only half focused. “I’m a knight of Camelot,” he said, faintly. His fingers tightened on Leon’s arm. “We’re knights of Camelot.” In the distance, the dragon roared. 

Leon nodded. “And Camelot needs us,” he said, and knew that it had never been more true.

*   *   *

By the time dawn broke, the eastern skies tinged with fire which echoed the flames spreading through the city, the dragon had gone. Not because they had fought it off - not because of anything they had done. It had gone to sleep, or perhaps eat, or terrorise some of the outlying villages. Whatever it did during the day. Leon was grateful for the respite. His head ached, his hand ached, every muscle in his body ached. He was covered in soot and grime and blood.

And the dragon would be back again that night.

“The dead number forty-nine men, twenty-seven women… a further eighteen women and children are unaccounted for. Most of last night’s fires are now out. Castle walls… in particular the western section are beginning to collapse - I could go on.” Arthur sounded bone-tired, and all of his earlier confidence had vanished. They were convening in the king’s small council room, with all of his main advisors and commanders with him, wringing their hands and looking desperate. At any other time, Leon would have been honoured to have been included.

Right now, all he wanted was sleep.

The king’s face was lined more than usual; he looked weary and hopeless. “Do we have any further idea on how the beast escaped?”

Leon rubbed his burnt hand through the gloves. “I regret to say, sire - we don’t.”

“There must be some way to rid ourself of this… aberration.” Uther walked to the window while Arthur slumped down on a nearby chair, closing his eyes in pain. The room was silent. The king looked from face to face, his eyes almost pleading. “Gaius.”

Gaius looked down at his feet, and for a long moment, seemed to be struggling to speak. Then his chin rose. “We need a dragonlord, sire.”

“You know very well that’s not an option.” The king’s voice was rapid and low, and he turned away almost immediately.

“Sire, what if… there was indeed one last dragonlord left?” said Gaius, hesitantly. 

“That’s not possible.”

Gaius spoke swiftly. “But if there was?”

There was a long moment while Uther turned back from the window and approached the physician, suddenly suspicious. “What are you saying?”

Gaius looked down, apparently reluctant to speak further. “It may just be rumour.”

“Go on.”

“I’m not exactly sure but… I think his name is Balinor.”

Leon stayed silent throughout the argument that followed. Arthur wanted to go out and search for the man Balinor, persuade him to - to do whatever it was he could do to the dragon, to end the fight. Uther resisted at every step. 

Leon wasn’t even sure what a dragonlord meant. Presumably something to do with sorcery, by the way the king had reacted. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it himself. Sorcery was dangerous; the dragon was a creature of magic, and look at the destruction it had wrought in just two nights. But perhaps to fight fire with fire…

If Gaius thought it had a chance, then perhaps the idea was a good one. Leon trusted Gaius. The physician had patched up enough of his wounds to gain his trust. But he didn’t see why a dragonlord would want to help them. Surely if he was another creature of magic, he would hate Camelot and everything it stood for? He was probably watching gleefully as the city burned. Uther had ordered magic to be stamped out - had overseen the destruction of countless druid settlements. Why would anyone even remotely associated with magic want to help him?

But Gaius and the prince probably knew something he didn’t. If they thought they would persuade the dragonlord to help, then who was he to argue? And besides, a slim hope was better than none.

*   *   *

Arthur won the argument, leaving Camelot to search for the man Gaius said could end the tyranny of the dragon. That left Leon in charge of the defence of the city. On balance, he would rather have been Arthur. Cenred’s kingdom was dangerous, no doubt about that, but pit Leon against a hundred Essetirans any day. The dragon - a towering mass of fire and impenetrable scales which feared nothing and could not be killed - well, the dragon was in another league entirely.

He was tired, bone tired, and his burnt hand was troubling him even though it had been bandaged up. He needed to sleep. The dragon came at night, which left the day for rest - except that it didn’t, because the day was filled with putting out the fires of the night before, and directing evacuations, and helping find bandages and water for the wounded, and making tallies of the houses and shops and goods destroyed and of the men left who could still fight. And training the remaining knights. Directing battle plans. 

_Folly. Hopeless folly_. 

They needed leaders - trained warriors who knew how to lead. And there were precious few of them left. Leon was one of the most senior knights available now. When he’d dreamed of command, he had never once imagined that he’d rise to it like this. 

With little sleep, his injured hand shaking with the effort of holding his crossbow up, and his face already stained with sweat and smoke which he hadn’t had time to wash off from the night before… he didn’t fell like he’d been less ready for leadership in his life. But now the troop of men were looking to him for guidance, as if a single thing he could do would save them from the dragon’s rage. As if he knew what he was doing.

“Hold!” he shouted, and the men under his command halted, crossbows out and ready, crouched behind the pitiful protection of their shields. Shields were better than no shields, and with the walls so unstable it was impossible to use the crenellations for shelter, but it felt like madness. Still, the dragon had ducked to avoid the flaming crossbow bolts last time, so perhaps that meant that it could be harmed by them. A slender hope, but the best Leon had. And all of his plans hinged on this.

The dragon twisted neatly in the air and dived for them. 

“Hold!” he shouted again, hearing the fear in his own voice. Did Arthur hear the same, when he gave his orders? Could the men sense their commanders’ terror?

The dragon swept closer and Leon’s nerves gave out. “Now!” he cried, and released his own bolt as around him the men did the same. The dragon’s mouth opened, a terror of boiling fire within, and the bolts vanished into the flame. 

The training had been worth it; the knights had dropped their crossbows and formed up their shields into a bank, just as they had practiced. Now it was time to see whether Leon’s calculations would pay off. The dragon didn’t seem to be able to hold its fire for long, and the shields were heavy metal and fire-hardened wood. It was a contest to see which would hold out for the longest. 

Leon hadn’t expected the force of the flames to be so much. It was a tremendous effort to hold his shield in place. He braced one shoulder against it, straining to keep it tight against the others, and felt the heat washing over him from the flames around them. But the shieldwall was doing its job, for now; he and the other knights were unharmed. 

He could feel the shield heating up against his shoulder. In a few moments it would be unbearably hot. Already he could see the strain on some of the other knights’ faces and knew that his must be a mirror image. The fire had gone on for so long - what if he had been wrong? What if the dragon had an infinite reserve?

His shoulder was burning, the metal of his armour searing through his undershirt and padding and into his flesh. He breathed hard to overcome the pain. Metal armour was idiotic, of course - it heated up in the flames and made the burns far worse than they would otherwise have been. But charging into battle with _no_ armour was suicide. Beside him, Olyvar was shaking with the effort, the tears coursing down his smoke-stained cheeks. He met Leon’s eyes. Leon hoped that his own expression was determination, but he knew that it was more likely that it was simply pain.

And then it was over, and the pressure on the shield lifted, and there was an almighty gust of wind and a shadow over them and the dragon was lifting up, away, wheeling over the rooftops of Camelot. Had they injured it? Was that too much to hope for?

Leon breathed easily again, lowered his shield, and allowed himself a moment to slump down onto the cobblestones. He met Olyvar’s eyes and was seized by a sudden urge to laugh. They had survived. Against all odds, they had survived a dragon.

“Don’t teach you that in basic training,” he said, gasping, and then Olyvar grinned broadly and laughed with him and slapped him on the back. Leon winced and touched his burned shoulder, which felt like it was still on fire. He grimaced.

“It’ll be back,” warned Olyvar, his expression sobering rapidly as a screeching roar echoed through the courtyard, coming from above them. 

Leon nodded. “It was heading to the lower town.”

“Who’s in command there?”

“Ulfswyn.”

“With his burned shoulder?”

Leon shrugged and then winced. “He’s not the only one.”

Olyvar looked at him oddly. “You need to see Gaius?”

“Not yet. I’ll go in the morning. He’s overloaded as it is.” Leon stood up and addressed the others. “Well done. Now we know that works, we can keep doing it. The others in the lower town will do the same. The dragon will be back, but we’ll be ready. Between us, we can keep the beast from destroying the rest of the town until morning.”

Some of the men cheered half-heartedly. They were too exhausted and too worn out by fear to commit. Leon felt that something more was needed. He raised his shield arm, ignoring the shriek of pain from his shoulder.

“For Camelot!”

This time, the men roused. “Camelot!” they echoed. Leon allowed himself a short, grim smile.

“Now we need to fetch water. Put out those fires and ready ourselves for a second attack. We’ve trained for this,” he reminded them. 

They had trained for it, but only for a few scant hours. Leon hoped that it was enough. Draw the dragon in to the courtyard again with the shield wall, as before, but with a few extra men around the sides, hidden behind the chunks of stone they had carefully dragged into place. Those men didn’t have the protection of the shield wall, but they did have crossbows and throwing spears. Leon had told them to aim for the dragon’s vulnerable wings. If it couldn’t fly, it lost one of its crucial advantages - and besides, the thin membrane between the fingers of bone was probably the most vulnerable part of it. Once they had pinned it down to the ground, the men had orders to go for the eyes and mouth. A blinded dragon was probably just as dangerous as one which could see, really, but anything which gave them a potential advantage was worth aiming for. 

Meanwhile, Leon and his men of the shieldwall would edge backwards, towards the colonnade. Above them, on the second story, were two more men waiting with several huge tubs of water. It was a risky strategy, because if the fire damaged the supporting columns, the entire troop could be buried in rubble. If it didn’t, though, they would dump the water on the beast’s head and see if it could still light its fire while wet. And then the crossbowmen on the side had the order to load their grappling hooks, attached to rope, and they would try to ensnare the beast. That wouldn’t work unless its fire was quenched, because otherwise it could easily burn itself free. Leon had thought about it, and he didn’t imagine a creature which breathed fire could be damaged by heat. Their flaming bolts weren’t useful except to track whether the shots found their mark. 

Still, the water had a chance. That was all his plans relied on, really - chance, and luck, and the slenderest of hopes. Better than nothing, but he hated knowing that the lives of his men - and of many others in Camelot - relied on what essentially boiled down to a hunch. 

He heard a roar and saw the bright gout of flame leap up from the lower town, and hoped that Ulfswyn and the others were faring as well as his troop had. Their main job was to distract the beast, to needle it long enough to force it to seek another target. The lower town was large enough that it was pointless trying to prepare a battleground on which to meet the dragon; it could simply move to another spot and continue its destruction there. Ulfswyn and the others had several riders, crossbowmen hidden at strategic points, and seven of the fastest runners in the squad. They had placed caches of shields all around the streets, so that wherever the dragon moved, the men could drop their shields, run to intercept it, and find new ones before the flames hit. 

The bravest towns-men and -women had also been pressed into service, with buckets and a chain of runners leading to the wells. Leon was determined to prevent as much destruction as possible. Keep the dragon on the move, don’t let it stay for too long anywhere, minimise damage as soon as it left - that was what they needed to do. The efforts of his troop to bring the beast down and kill it were secondary. He didn’t really believe that they had much chance of doing that, not within the confines of the city walls at least. But they could delay and distract it enough to buy themselves time until dawn. Until Arthur returned. All Leon’s hopes were pinned on the prince now.

*   *   *

Arthur arrived around midday, and the runners fetched Leon almost immediately. He had been snatching another desperate half-hour of sleep, but somewhere within the exhaustion and the despair, he was proud to know that he was now a trusted leader, whose council was sought in such important matters. _When they said commanders were trained in fire_ , he mused as they waited for Arthur to arrive _, I doubt they meant dragonfire_. 

One look at Arthur’s face confirmed all of his worst fears.

“I’m sorry father. I’ve failed you.”

Leon closed his eyes. 

“The last dragonlord is dead.”

Behind Arthur, his manservant looked close to tears. Leon felt that way himself. The dragonlord had been their only hope; all that was left now was to fight until they were eventually killed. No matter how detailed his plans had been the night before - their bolts had not even scratched the dragon. Leon had personally watched his own fly straight and true into the base of the beast’s wing, and skid off as if it were no more than a stalk of grass. He remembered Olyvar’s final charge, running, dodging past a flailing wing to launch himself at the beast’s neck. Remembered how he had been tossed aside without a thought, as if Olyvar himself - broad-shouldered, six-foot-four Olyvar, who made all of the maidens sigh in the tavern when he smiled, who had beaten every man in the troop at arm wrestling without even breaking a sweat - was nothing more than a rag doll. Remembered how limp his friend had been when dawn had finally broken and he had carried the barely-breathing man to Gaius’ rooms.

Perhaps they’d make a song of it. The last stand of the knights of Camelot. A once-great band of men. All dead.

He almost laughed. If everyone was dead, who would there be to write the songs?

“All is not lost, father,” he heard Arthur say. “We have to fight the monster ourselves. So let us ride out, and fight on our own terms. On… open ground, on horseback - where we can manoeuvre better.”

Uther’s voice was hard and edged with despair. “There is no point.”

“ _So what?”_ Arthur suddenly sounded determined. “We stand here? We watch Camelot fall.”

He met his father’s eyes. 

_Yes_ , thought Leon, even though he knew that it would mean his death. He would follow Arthur. Because he wanted to die with a sword in his hand, with the faintest hope that his death might _achieve_ something. All the dreams he’d had when he was put forward for training were coming back - dreams of immortality, or a name which echoed through halls and was said in tones of reverence, of a story which was begged for by children at their parents’ knees. He wanted glory again. 

He watched Uther rise, watched his face change, watched the king contemplate the unthinkable - of sending his son to die against a dragon when there was no hope left.

“You have my blessing.”

Arthur nodded, almost imperceptibly, and then turned round to look the men behind him in the eye.

“I need a dozen knights. Those who do not wish to fight may do so without stain on their character - for those brave enough to volunteer should know: the chances of returning are slim.”

He looked around. No-one volunteered. The knights struggled to meet his eyes.

Leon stepped forward. 

He saw Arthur turn, saw the surprise in his eyes. Leon gave him a tiny nod. _I at least will die for Camelot._

Sir Aelfwyn stepped up beside him. Leon was close enough to see the muscles in his jaw jumping. And then Sir Uwain, and Sir Egfred - all of the remaining knights in the room, stepping forward, surrounding the prince in a ring, willing to follow him into death. Leon saw Arthur’s throat jump as he nodded and swallowed.

*   *   *

It was dark. The moon had risen, giving just enough light to see by, but it made every shadow in the eaves of the forest look like a threat. 

They sat in a tight ring, facing outwards, all staring into the sky, waiting. Leon felt his heart drumming against his chest. One of the horses whinnied. 

Leon, his vision restricted by his heavy steel helmet, heard the wingbeats before he saw the dragon. His horse whinnied again.

“Hold firm,” said Arthur, as he put his helmet back on and tightened his grip on the reins. 

Beside him, his manservant looked ready to bolt. Arthur shouldn’t have brought him along. He couldn’t fight - wasn’t even wearing armour. But perhaps he had as much right to come along on a suicide mission as anyone else. He always had shown an uncommon loyalty to his master. And it wasn’t as if one extra person would make much of a difference either way. 

“Hold,” warned Arthur, again.

The dragon spotted them and wheeled, descending, the frequency of its wingbeats increasing. The horses shifted restlessly. They were trained animals, used to the carnage of battle, but a dragon was another thing entirely. Leon tried to reassure his mount with a hand on its neck. He hadn’t brought Gwyndor. Maybe it was sentimental, but he didn’t feel like it was fair to the beast to let him die like that. He had left him in the stables with instructions to return him to his sister, if enough of Camelot survived. With a message from her now-dead brother.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring the horses. The poor animals didn’t deserve to die like this. And a terrified animal was just one more thing to go wrong. Increased manoeuvrability - well, yes, that was one thing in theory, but these beasts hadn’t been trained to hold steady when a fire-breathing dragon descended on them.

_And neither have these knights_ , he thought, struggling to control his own desire to bolt. 

“Hold,” shouted Arthur. The horses shied and neighed, fighting their riders. Arthur glanced sideways.

“Hold!” _Three more seconds, two more seconds, one more second_ \- the dragon was speeding towards them now, and Leon had to force himself to keep control. _Remember the plan, remember the plan, remember the plan -_

“Now!”

Leon nudged his horse into action, and not a moment too soon. The dragon careened into them, landing exactly where the group had been a second before, but now the knights had split neatly into two lines, curving around in a semicircle, forming a ring around the beast. It snarled and turned around in a tight circle, its tail sweeping around, lashing out like a cornered wolf. Leon levelled his lance at it.

A sweeping dark shape coming towards him too fast to avoid, a blow which knocked all of the breath out of him in an instant, and then darkness.


	2. In which we learn that sometimes, small-name characters survive too

Leon woke up sprawled awkwardly on the ground, a crushing weight on his chest and legs, and a searing pain in his arms. He tried to raise his head and failed. It was still dark.

His horse had fallen over him, trapping his legs beneath its weight, but judging by the scorch marks on its coat and the sweet smell of burnt flesh, it had also saved his life. There were burn marks on his forearms where the chainmail had been heated up and seared into his flesh, and the skin of his forehead was red and blistered. The smell of his own sweat where he had heated up inside his armour was almost overpowering. But his dead horse had shielded him from most of the heat of the dragon’s flame. 

His comrades hadn’t been so fortunate, he saw as he looked painfully around the battlefield. Some were little more than charred shells. Others had been luckier, and had avoided the full force of the dragon’s breath, but they had cooked inside their plate all the same - their skin pink and blackened like lobsters. All brave men, and many of them his friends. Leon let his head drop and sobbed with pain and exhaustion and grief. 

But Arthur wasn’t there. And the dragon wasn’t there either. The night was quiet and still, and every one of the men they had ridden out with - Leon could count the bodies - every one of them was accounted for. Except Arthur. And his manservant. Surely they hadn’t escaped? They couldn’t have taken on a dragon alone. But then where were they?

Leon tried calling out, but his voice cracked and withered in his throat. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was. He needed to get back to Camelot. Needed Gaius. His arms were agony with every movement, but he lacked the strength to remove the chainmail rubbing against them. And one of his legs - one of his legs was surely broken. It hurt every time he moved it. Every time he even _thought_ about moving it. It made no matter - he didn’t have the strength to stand anyway. 

He had no choice but to wait here, he supposed. To wait for someone to come and find him. They would have to send someone, sooner or later, to collect the bodies. To look for Arthur. But if they still lived in fear of the dragon, would anyone come at all? What if no-one ever came and he simply died there, because he was too weak to find water or to move or to even remove his own armour?

It was half an age before he heard someone coming. Night had turned into dawn, which had turned into day, and now the shadows were long and the air cool. Leon tried to cry out, but found that his voice was gone; all that came out was a whispering croak. The man who came to the clearing was clearly a peasant, cautious and wary of the tangled mess of churned-up ground and bodies there. Leon watched him dully. He twitched and tried to call out again, but the peasant didn’t look up from where he was inspecting the bodies, one by one, a look of mixed horror and fascination on his face.

Leon no longer had the strength or the will to move. He had somehow managed to wriggle free of the horse, but no more. With the day had come the flies, and the carrion crows. The first few he tried to scare away - but the effort rapidly sapped his strength and his leg was unbearably painful. After the sun had reached its peak and begun to sink back towards the horizon, he no longer even had the will to bat away the flies crawling around him, and he was forced to watch the crows peck and squabble over the corpses of his friends because he was simply too weak to do anything else. That was the worst part. 

It was a struggle to stay conscious. The peasant wound his way slowly around the field, and by the time he noticed Leon, the knight had almost given up the effort. The man squinted at him, then went to lift his visor with a single finger.

“Huuuu,” managed Leon, desperately. 

The visor clanged shut as the man jumped back, stumbled, and fell over in shock. He recovered surprisingly swiftly and moved forwards again to lift the visor. Leon found himself battling to focus on the man’s face, set in a frown and crinkled with age.

“You’re alive,” said the man, fairly decisively.

“Mmmnnf,” said Leon, with a heroic effort.

The man lifted the helmet off his face and sucked on his own teeth. “What happened here, then?”

“Duuuh,” tried Leon, closed his eyes briefly, and then forced them open again. “Druuugnn.”

The man’s eyebrows dipped in an even deeper frown. “Dragon, you say?”

“Mm.”

“I’ll have nothing to do with dragons.”

_No_ , thought Leon, desperately. _You have to help. Please_.

“Pllluuuuuh-“

The man was already backing away, shaking his head. Leon twitched an arm in a vain attempt to stop him, but he was already gone. 

His last and only hope - gone. Leon finally gave up the struggle and slumped back into unconsciousness.

 

*   *   *

 

“See, this one was alive when I came,” said a voice. Leon struggled to open his eyes, and squinted against the sudden flood of light. A torch - several torches. Close to his face. He blinked in confusion. 

“He’s still alive,” said a voice. 

“Camelot knights,” said someone else. “We should help them.”

“All of the others are dead.”

“This one isn’t. What’s your name, knight?”

Leon tried to answer, but found he could do nothing but gasp. Even that effort brought on a wave of dizziness; he had to fight to stay awake.

“He can’t talk; he’s half-dead already.”

“Give him water.”

Blessed water, cool against his lips, running down his throat, the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He swallowed, choked, and wailed as the cough sent a wave of agony through every fibre of his body. 

“Take it easy. You’ll kill him,” said one of the people. 

“What do we do with him?”

Leon tried to move and almost screamed at the pain which shot upwards from his leg. He felt a steadying hand on his forearm, but all it did was press the chainmail into his burnt skin and he flinched away. It was too much. It was all too much, and he was exhausted and afraid and filled with grief for his friends and in pain. He whimpered.

“We should take him back to Camelot. They’ll know what to do with him there,” suggested someone. “They’ll reward us.”

“It’s too far. He won’t make it.”

“So we should leave him? We can’t stay here. Not with a dragon around.”

“Do you see a dragon? If there was a dragon, we’d all be long dead. The dragon’s gone.”

“D’ya reckon they killed it?”

“There’d be a body.”

“Maybe they hurt it and it flew off to die.”

“Makes no matter, long as it isn’t here now.”

Leon felt his eyes closing of their own accord and had to battle to stay conscious. The darkness was beginning to swoop around him again, and a rushing noise was filling his ears. But he had to stay awake. Had to convince these people that he was worth saving. That he was going to make it.

Was he going to make it? Honestly, he didn’t even know. He was just so tired now, so tired and weak and hurting all over. It hardly seemed worth it. But if he could only make them see-

“Nnnngh,” he managed, with a monumental effort, right before he blacked out.

 

*   *   *

 

He woke up, surprised that he was still alive, in the back of a cart with the dawn skies above him clouded and heavy with rain. He was lying on a bed of what felt like hay, nestled in between sacks of apples. It smelt like home, back on the estate when it was harvest time and he and his brother had used to run between the orchards upsetting the workers and getting in the way of carts. Sometimes they would steal an apple and take it up to their special tree to sit and munch and watch the autumn sun filter through the leaves and the carthorses slowly plod their way homewards for the day.

And then the pain came back, throbbing and twisting its way through his body, and it took everything he had not to cry out. They were heading back to Camelot: they had to be. Soon he would be in the castle, in his own room, and Gaius would be there and there would be warm fires and rest and something soothing for the burns and they’d splint up his leg and everything would be fine. 

The cart went over a rut in the road and a fresh wave of agony shot up from his leg, the whimper escaping from his lips before he even realised he had made a sound. The darkness was roaring around him again, and he felt dizzy even though he wasn’t moving. He was going to pass out, he knew. And because it hurt so much, because this was the worst pain in his life, because he was too tired and too weak to care about anything else - this time he welcomed it.

 

*   *   *

 

Leon drifted in and out of consciousness, caught in the ever-present pain which ebbed and flowed through him like a tide, never quite releasing him from its grip. He remembered the sky, and dark clouds, and then fat drops of cold rain on his face. Being too cold, and then too hot. Stone walls above him, the clopping of hooves, and then shouts, hands around his face. Pain, so much pain, unbearable pain, and then sudden quiet. Too hot again, and blankets tangled around his chest, and he couldn’t breathe. More quiet, and darkness, and the sound of his own ragged breathing. Too hot, and shivering. His leg throbbing. 

Light again, someone speaking, a familiar voice. The words escaped him. Too hot, and his forehead damp with sweat, and he was trapped in the blankets but he was too weak to even push them away. Then something cool on his forehead, and just for a second, a face above him, blurred and indistinct, and someone speaking, slowly and carefully. He didn’t understand. The darkness returned.

Now everything was quiet again, and everything ached. The sharp smell of sweat mixing with herbs - lavender and sage. Gaius’ rooms. He was in Gaius’ rooms. 

His throat felt raw and he had difficulty focusing his eyes, but he could almost think clearly now. It was late evening, by the quality of the light in the room. He wondered how long he had been lying there. How long since they had ridden out to fight the dragon?

The dragon. Leon felt his heart begin to pound uncomfortably and had a sudden urge to escape. To get away. The dragon was coming and he was trapped and he couldn’t move and-

No, no, he was safe, the dragon was gone, he was safe. 

It didn’t help. The fear shot through him, burning in his veins like vinegar, and he could do nothing about it but lie there, trembling, disgusted at his own weakness. He concentrated on staying quiet and still until the terror subsided, leaving him feeling drained and helpless in its wake. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He’d had enough of rest. 

His leg still throbbed painfully, even when he wasn’t moving it. It must be broken. Judging by how stiff it felt, Gaius had set it and splinted it up. Leon wondered how long it would be before he could use it again. His arms were bandaged as well, up to the shoulder, and although his hands were free they were blistered and raw-looking. He moved his fingers carefully up to explore his face. The skin felt rough and scabbed, especially around his jaw where his beard used to be. It didn’t hurt until he pressed down, and then it hurt so much that he gasped. That hurt even more, because it made all of the blisters and dead skin crack and open, leaving the tender flesh raw and exposed. 

He must look horrific. He remembered what the fire had done to his friends and comrades on the field, and shuddered. The tears leaking from his eyes, unbidden, stung as they met the damaged skin of his face. In a way he felt as if he deserved it. What right did he have to survive where so many others - so many better knights than he - had died? 

He shivered. He must have had a fever. Even now, his hair felt damp and his clothes smelt of fear. He needed water - water to soothe his aching throat and to wash away the dirt and sweat from his skin and to cool his stiffened limbs. He had never wanted anything so badly in his life. Where would Gaius keep water? Could he reach it?

He knew without even trying that that answer was _no_. It would be a struggle to even reach something which had been placed right beside him. No matter how much he needed it, he would simply have to wait until someone arrived to help him. He groaned with frustration. He hated feeling so weak and helpless. Not even able to rise - barely even able to lift his head. 

“- don’t you tell me what _really_ happened?” said a voice, and then the door creaked and there were footsteps. 

The second voice sounded weary. “I told you. That’s what happened. Why would I make that-?” 

It was Merlin. Arthur’s manservant. That voice. He must have survived, somehow. Survived the dragon’s flame and fury. Without armour and without a weapon. How? _How_?

“Sir Leon,” said the voice, and then the sound of hurrying footsteps. Leon blinked, slowly, as the boy’s face came into view. “He’s awake again, Gaius,” he said. Leon felt a hand on his forehead and winced away. “And his fever is down.”

“Can you hear me?” said Gaius, slowly and clearly, hovering into view. “Sir Leon. Can you hear me?”

“Ynnnrgh,” managed Leon. He saw the boy grin. 

“He’s back, Gaius. He can hear us. Finally.”

“Arthur will want to know,” Gaius reminded him. Merlin nodded and disappeared from view. 

The physician shuffled away. Leon tried to follow him with his eyes but moving his head was still too much of an effort. When he returned, he was holding something in his hands. _Water_. 

It wasn’t water. It tasted foul, but Leon drank it anyway, so eagerly that Gaius struggled to hold the cup steady. He almost choked, but it was worth it. 

“That should help the pain,” said Gaius. “I don’t suppose you can speak?”

“No,” said Leon, attempting a smile. The words had to be forced from his cracked lips, with no small amount of pain. “Can’t.”

“Still got a sense of humour, I see.”

Leon tried to smile again and failed. 

“I wouldn’t try to move. Your leg is broken, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. And you have severe burns on your arms and face, and I believe you may have re-cracked that rib again. In short, Sir Leon, you’re lucky to be alive.”

Well, he’d known that already. He hadn’t expected to come back from that ride. And he knew by the bodies that he was the only survivor. Well. Except for Merlin and-

“Aarthu?” 

“Prince Arthur is alive and well,” said Gaius, guessing at his meaning. “He dealt the dragon a mortal blow and it flew away to die. I expect he’ll be coming to visit, now you’re awake.”

Leon closed his eyes with relief. The dragon was dead. It wasn’t coming back. And the prince was alive. And _he_ was alive. It was more than he’d hoped for - far more. 

Whatever foul drink Gaius had given him was starting to take effect - the pain was beginning to dim and the lightheadedness was being replaced with a sort of fuzzy, dull confusion. He tried moving his fingers experimentally and was rewarded by a strange, tingling sort of pain - as if he had pins and needles. It was an improvement. 

“Wataa?” he whispered, so quietly that Gaius frowned and had to lean closer to hear. “W-water?”

The physician nodded and handed him a second cup, carefully, watching him gripping it with stiff fingers until he was confident that Leon wouldn’t drop it. It tasted like nectar from heaven, even through the pain of swallowing. 

The next thing he knew clearly was Arthur, looking faintly anxious above him, his face breaking into a relieved smile when he noticed Leon looking at him. 

“It’s good to see you, Leon,” he said. “We didn’t think anyone had survived.”

Leon nodded slowly. _I didn’t think I had survived either_ , he wanted to say, but he knew his throat wouldn’t cope. 

“I wanted to thank you, Sir Leon. Without you, I’m not sure anyone would have volunteered. Your bravery may well have saved the city.”

Leon wondered how useful he and the other knights had been. As bait, perhaps. He knew that he hadn’t even got a hit in on the beast -and by the pattern of death, none of the other knights had fared much better. Still. It was nice of Arthur to say. His lips twitched in a poor attempt at a smile. “-anku, s-sire.”

Arthur nodded. “And they told me that you held command of the knights while we were away. You did well. You’ll need to rest, now - recover - but I hope you’ll resume your duties when you have. We need more men like you.”

It was all Leon could do to nod; the sweeping dark was threatening him again, and Gaius’ potion for the pain didn’t exactly help him to stay awake. When he was recovered, he was sure he’d feel pride at the prince’s words - as it was, the pain made it difficult to feel anything at all, apart from the haze of exhaustion. Arthur left, leaving Leon to sink gratefully back into nothingness.


	3. In which we learn that recovering takes longer when you're not a main character

His recovery was slow, and painful. Gaius’ potions helped, but he had limited supplies, and - as he soon learned - there were many other patients needing his attention. Leon was the last, but there were other knights and citizens with injuries: mostly burns, but some broken bones from falling masonry or attempts to flee or fight. Olyvar had survived - but with a dislocated shoulder, a fractured collarbone and a cracked skull, he was as lucky as Leon to be alive. Both Gaius and Merlin were overworked, even with Guinevere and some of the other serving women to help. Leon hated being a burden on them. 

He moved back to his own chambers as soon as he was able, carried on a stretcher by some of the younger knights who hadn’t taken wounds in the battle. Gaius had given him a crutch to use until his leg was mended, but he couldn’t use it before the burns on his arms had healed. The bandages needed changing regularly and to his frustration, his fingers weren’t nimble enough to do it himself. He saw the pity in Guinevere’s eyes whenever she came to help him. He hated it. He hated the thinly-concealed revulsion of some of the other servants more, even though he knew that his face must have been blistered and cracked and terrible to look upon. 

Gaius had told him not to expect his leg to be fully healed for at least half a year. The burns, at least, would heal up within a month, and the physician - as if reading Leon’s innermost vanities - had promised minimal scarring. He hadn’t been exposed directly to the dragonfire - it was just the heated metal of his armour which had turned his skin blistered and raw. Another reason to be thankful. 

The first week was the worst. Leon bothered the servants constantly about news from outside, and received little in return. The dragon was gone, it hadn’t returned, there had been a grand feast in celebration of the prince’s bravery - _and yours, too m’lord_ \- and the king was supervising the rebuilding of the town. Leon was brought some of the food from the feast, but he could barely manage the porridge Gaius forced him to eat every day. 

Most of the time he was left to his own devices, which meant days on end of boredom. He wanted to be out and training, or helping with the efforts to rebuild, or the search for the Lady Morgana. Something. _Anything_. What he really wanted was to be well enough to get out of bed, rather than just sitting with his leg pillowed up and his arms swaddled in cloth, not even fully able to wash himself or attend to his most basic needs. 

_We can’t always have what we want_ , he reminded himself, trying to be patient. _It’s better than being dead_. 

It was several days before anyone but Gaius or Merlin or the servants came to visit him. Olyvar was pale-faced and bandaged, but he eventually made it up the stairs to Leon’s chambers. And once Olyvar had been, there was a steady trickle of other knights, wanting to congratulate him on surviving and hear first-hand of the fight against the dragon. Leon hated it. He didn’t remember enough to make it a good story, and every young knight who praised his bravery just served to remind him of the men who had died. The guilt rose in his throat like burning fumes, choking his words. The other knights assumed that he was still suffering from his wounds - that the fire had seared his lungs. 

He let them believe that. It was easier. 

Easier than trying to explain something that he didn’t even fully understand himself. He had been in battles before, seen his friends cut down in front of his eyes, had comrades fall under blows which had been meant for him. Every knight suffered the loss of his fellows from time to time; it was something that they all understood. But now… this time, somehow, it was different. This time it was nothing to do with skill, or talent, or even the act of an unthinking moment of recklessness. The other knights hadn’t had a chance. _He_ hadn’t had a chance. And yet here he was, and here they weren’t.

It felt like cowardice, and the endless days of nothing didn’t help. Normally after an injury, he would be back on light duty within a week or so, even if he wasn’t fit enough for active service. This time he had only the choice between boredom and pain - lying in bed alone with his thoughts, or trying to move with his burns still raw and his broken leg stiff and awkward. He chose pain more and more often, preferring the distraction, telling himself that he needed the exercise. 

The second week, he persuaded them to let him have his crossbow back, and set up an old shield as a target on the wall opposite his bed. It was good practice, even though he soon ran out of bolts and had to wait for someone to come so that they could tug the used ones free of the shield and return them to him. Having only ten bolts meant that he really had to focus for every one.

He had always been reasonable with a crossbow, but with nothing else to do he quickly became exceptional. And then it got boring. If he could hit the centre of the target with every bolt he had, and could draw and reload within half a minute, what was the point?

Leon set up harder challengers for himself - hitting the target while holding the crossbow away from his body, then moving the target around his chamber, then placing things between him and the target so that only a tiny corner of it was visible. That was harder, but that was good. He could feel himself improving. And practicing with a crossbow distracted him from the pain of his leg, even if the servants did find it rather alarming. 

Once the burns had healed enough to be tolerable, he started trying to walk. At first it was unbearable. Slowly, day by day, he improved. He had nothing else to do, so he focused his whole being on moving with the crutch. Once he was able to do a complete circuit of his room, he moved to the corridor outside. The stairs at the end represented a challenge - one Gaius insisted he wasn’t ready for until his leg was stronger. He occupied himself with trying to fire his crossbow from standing while balancing on one leg. When he got good enough at that, he picked up his sword again.

The sword was trickier. Leon had always relied on a strong arm and a rock-solid defence for his swordplay, and that was hard when his muscles were half-wasted and his balance was shot to bits. He practically had to re-learn how to handle the blade from scratch, and to re-adjust his style to accommodate his now-odd balance. It was exhausting, but it at least gave him something to do which felt useful. 

When he wasn’t practicing walking or weaponry, he begged for tasks from the king and Prince Arthur. Mostly these were mundane - recording grain stocks, or categorising building materials used, or making endless lists of the surrounding villages and their inhabitants and properties and herds. Leon didn’t mind. Someone had to do it, and it wasn’t like he was fit for anything else. He had used to watch his mother working out the accounts for the estate - she was better at it than his father was, even if it was technically Lord Leodegrance’s responsibility - and this was little different. It was like working out battlefield tactics, really, only it was using a quill and parchment and the battle was trying to work out how best to distribute grain to see them through the coming winter. 

Arthur came to visit him again, and even the king made an appearance. Gaius checked on him as often as he was able and pronounced himself astonished at how quickly Leon was healing. Everyone was pleased with his progress - except Leon.

The worst part was the nightmares. The first time it had happened, Leon hadn’t even realised until he was woken up in the middle of one by a nervous-looking servant, with his heart pounding and his forehead damp with sweat and his chest heaving and the heat of the dragonfire so real around him that he had to take a long moment to realise that he was safe in the castle. 

“You were dreaming,” the servant said, gulping a little. 

“A nightmare,” agreed Leon, trying to control his breathing.

“Are you… are you well?”

_No_ , thought Leon. “Yes.” Then he remembered his manners. “Thank you for waking me.”

The servant nodded and bowed and left hurriedly, clearly unsure of how to act. Leon was left with his heart still thudding against his chest, the early-morning light turning the room around him a soft grey, wondering what had happened. _Dreams of dragonfire_. It was only to be expected, he supposed.

That had been the beginning. 

The dragon dreams became more regular, until they woke him almost every night. A dark shape, a sense of incoming dread, and then the white-hot mouth opening with the fire boiling inside, the screams of the men he knew as they roasted inside their plate and chainmail, the heat of the flames on his face, his skin bubbling and cracking with it-

It wasn’t how he remembered the final fight, not at all, but his subconscious mind invented the details for him and he was left helpless and powerless in its wake. Sometimes he shouted in his sleep, which usually fetched one of the servants running. Once he managed to fall out of bed and set back his recovery at least a week. That was when Gaius found out about it.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he scolded, re-bandaging Leon’s leg with gentle hands which hurt like knives. 

“They’re only dreams,” explained Leon. “Not important.”

“You’ll do yourself a worse injury. I can give you something for them.”

Leon vaguely remembered someone gossiping that Gaius had been giving the king’s ward such potions when she had disappeared. 

“Like the Lady Morgana?”

Gaius’ mouth folded up like an old walnut and his hands stilled for a second. “Not exactly the same. Her case was… different. But I can find something to help you sleep.”

“Sleeping isn’t the problem,” said Leon. _It’s the waking up that’s the problem_. His face betrayed him, though. He knew that he was looking exhausted. 

“It’s a completely normal response to what you’ve been though,” Gaius reassured him. “The potion will simply allow you a deeper sleep than usual.”

_Where the nightmares can’t reach me_ , thought Leon, but the idea frightened him. What if the dose was wrong and he couldn’t wake up? And wouldn’t stopping the nightmares from running their course just prolong them in the long run? Besides. He was a knight of Camelot, and what he didn’t fear in life, he had no reason to fear in dreams.

_But you do fear it in life_ , whispered a voice in the back of his mind, the flash of fire and dread. 

_Without fear there can be no bravery_ , he reminded himself.

How could he justify his survival without overcoming this fear? If he succumbed to it now, how could he look at his dead comrades and say _I survived while you all died_? He hadn’t deserved to live any more than they had. Leon suddenly felt that the nightmares were just one more penance he had to pay for escaping where so many worthy others had not. 

“Thank you, but no,” he said, and Gaius raised one eyebrow in surprise. “I can deal with the nightmares alone.”

“If you’re worried about-“ began Gaius, but Leon cut him off.

“I said _no_.”

The physician blinked and Leon felt a hot rush of guilt for being so short with him. 

“I’m sorry, Gaius, I didn’t mean- I just-“ A satisfactory explanation eluded him. “I’m fine.”

Gaius pressed his lips together in taut disapproval. “If you like, Leon. Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will.” _I won’t_. 

 

*     *     *

 

It was several months before any of Leon’s family made it to see him. Not his father - his father was too busy with his lordly duties, and even if he hadn’t been, Leon wasn’t sure that he would have come. But Lady Gwenith came, bringing her two youngest children with her, and that was enough. Leon hadn’t seen his brother and sister for nearly two years. Tegan and Owain were almost grown, now, and delighted to see their older brother despite his fears that they might not even remember him fully. 

They both wanted to be a knight of Camelot, just like their brave big brother, the dragonslayer. With Tegan, Leon didn’t mind; she would grow out of it soon enough, hopefully before she realised that women couldn’t be knights. Owain was almost of an age, though, and the thought of him becoming a squire and entering training inexplicably terrified Leon. His younger brother looked so vulnerable, with his spindly long legs and that mop of dark brown hair, taking after his father. All of Leodegrance’s children had inherited his height, and at thirteen Owain was already taller than their mother, but he was still so _young_. 

“I could be your squire, Leon, I could look after your horse and sharpen your sword and-“

“No,” said Leon, a little too sharply, and was rewarded by a reproachful look from his mother. He had spoken without thinking again. He had to stop doing that. “I mean, I don’t get a squire, Owain, only the commanders get squires, you’d have to squire for Sir Bors or Prince Arthur or someone…”

“But you _are_ a commander, Lee, Prince Arthur said you were,” said Tegan, plaintively. “I could squire for you too, we could both do it, I’m strong, I can carry your sword-“

_I am a commander_. Leon kept forgetting that. In the aftermath of the battle, he had been officially named a member of the Royal Guard, which actually made him one of the more _senior_ commanders. He suspected that it had less to do with role in the battle itself - although, granted, he had assumed command there - and more to do with the fact that he was by now - at twenty-eight - one of the oldest knights left, not counting Uther’s advisors who were no longer in active service. It felt wrong, somehow. He had been eleven years a knight, and it didn’t feel long enough. 

“Alright, stop bothering your brother, now, can’t you see he’s tired?” Leon was grateful for the intervention of his mother; his siblings were beginning to become exhausting, and his leg was hurting again. “Why don’t you run along and see if you can find Gywndor in the stables? I’m sure Olwen will want to hear about how Leon’s treating her gift.”

When they were gone, she turned back to her son with concern in her blue-green eyes. “You needn’t be so short with him,” she said, softly. “All he wants is to be like you.”

Leon sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

She looked sympathetic. “I understand. Your father was the same, when he used to come back from campaigns with Uther. It takes a while to… readjust.”

Leon saw a chance, and grabbed it. “The same, how?”

She pressed her lips together and tucked a strand of grey-blonde hair behind her ear in her usual gesture. “It’s hard to explain. I think, the things he saw… they changed him, somehow. He would never talk about it but I knew. He would be much… much shorter than usual. Quieter. More on edge. Sometimes I could see him go away inside, somewhere where I couldn’t reach him. And he’d have nightmares.”

This was a side of his father Leon hadn’t realised existed. He was surprised that his mother was being so open about it, and then he saw the pain in her eyes and realised that she was afraid that she was seeing her son go through the same thing. He was suddenly torn between asking more, and betraying that he was suffering exactly what his father had, and worrying her further - or reassuring her that he was fine, even when he wasn’t sure that he was any more.

“I don’t have nightmares,” he lied. “Not any more. And sometimes I think the leg makes me… the pain makes me sharper than usual. But I’m fine.” The excuse sounded lame, even to his own ears. He wondered whether his mother could hear it as well. But she hadn’t seen him in two years, and she wanted to believe that her son was well. She smiled, relieved. 

“I’m glad you aren’t suffering more than you have to,” she said. “I don’t like thinking of you here alone.”

“I’m not alone, mother.” 

She nodded. “I know. You have the others. And Guinevere and Elyan. How are they, by the way?”

“Good,” he said, because he didn’t want to let her know that he had no idea where Elyan was, or if he was even still alive. “Since Tom died Guinevere has been working full-time at the castle. She was a maid to the Lady Morgana.”

“The Lady Morgana who disappeared?”

“They’ll find her,” said Leon, automatically. 

“Maybe I should go to see Guinevere, while I’m here. Since Tom died she’ll be needing all the help she can get, poor thing. I still miss her mother around the house.”

Guinevere would be touched that Gwenith had thought of her, Leon knew. She had been named partly in honour of Leon’s mother; the two women had been close, even though Gwenith was the mistress and Guinevere’s mother the maid. Cateline had had very few friends when she had arrived from France, and it had been Gwenith who had taken her under her wing and given her a job, back in the early days of her marriage. She had used to say that Cateline was the best seamstress in the whole of Camelot. It had been through Gwenith that Cateline had met Tom, and it had been Gwenith who had pushed for Guinevere to be educated as a proper lady’s maid, and encouraged Elyan to take up his father’s trade. 

Cateline, in turn, had patched up more than one grazed knee of Gwenith’s children, and helped them sneak apple tarts from the kitchen, and taught Leon how to sew up the many rips in his tunics from climbing trees and mock-jousting with his brothers. And when she had died, and Leon felt like he had lost a secondary mother, it had been Gwenith who had helped Tom move with his children into Camelot itself, and set up a business there to help finance Guinevere’s ambitions to work in the castle and Elyan’s burgeoning career as an armorer. 

“I think she’d like that,” he said. “She still lives in their house. But Elyan’s not here at the moment. He went to follow the work.” 

“He always was restless,” commented Gwenith, and then looked closely at him. “How is your leg, anyway?”

Leon was a little taken aback at the change of topic. “Healing. Slowly.”

“Haven’t they given you any pain relief for it?”

“They have.” Gaius had dropped off another bottle of the thick, chalky potion that morning.

“So why haven’t you taken any?” 

Leon dropped his gaze, guiltily. “How can you tell?”

“Your jaw clenches every time you move,” she said, narrowing her eyes a little. “Leon. They give you that stuff for a reason.”

“I can cope without it.”

“Leon.” His mother sounded disapproving; maybe she could hear the evasiveness in his voice. He was suddenly and powerfully reminded of being eight years old and scolded for pushing his elder brother in the river.

“I don’t need it, mother,” he protested, hearing the weakness of his own argument. He didn’t want to tell her the truth - that he wasn’t taking Gaius’ potions because he felt like the pain was part of the penance he had to pay for surviving. The others had paid with their lives; why should he try to avoid his own price? But Gwenith would hardly understand that. 

She narrowed her eyes even more and gave him a long, appraising stare. “It doesn’t make you any less of a man to use it, you know.” 

“I know.”

“You’re not trying to impress anyone, are you?” Gwenith had always fostered fond hopes that her second son would meet some lord’s daughter or foreign dignitary at court and give her more grandchildren. Apparently she didn’t feel that his brother Gethin and his wife and twins were enough.

“Mother. No.” As if Leon had the time or the energy for courtship. There had been someone, once… but she had been swiftly married off to a southern Lord and was by all accounts blissfully happy with her new life. 

“You know Olwen thinks she’s with child again?”

“I’m happy for her.”

“She’s given up riding this time. She’s terrified of losing it again.”

“Wish her luck from me.” Leon wished that his oldest sister had come to visit, as well. She always had been his favourite sibling - closest to him in age, and not so serious as their brother, who had grown up with the weight of inheriting their father’s lordship on his shoulders. But if she thought she was pregnant, there was no way she would risk travel. She had lost her first and second pregnancies early on, and he knew how desperately his sister wanted children. It would make her marriage to a man twice her age halfway bearable, she had confided in him. 

“Your father’s trying to find a match for Tegan,” said his mother, clearly settling in to share all of the gossip from home.

“She’s only _fifteen_ ,” said Leon, shocked. 

“Leon, your father and I were engaged at twelve.”

“That’s different. He was a king’s eldest son then. And you didn’t marry for _years_.” Leon ran a hand through his hair. “Does she know about it?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not,” he echoed, ironically.

Gwenith gave him a severe look, and then her face softened. “You look tired, Lee. Tired and worn.” She hardly ever used his pet name, except for when she was feeling sentimental. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I’m your mother.”

He shifted slightly, and felt the jolt of pain shoot up from his bandaged leg. He tried to hide his wince. 

“I know,” was all he said. He suddenly wanted her to leave. Her sympathy was just as wearing as his siblings’ questions. “Sorry, mother. I’m tired.”

She pressed her lips together and he could almost feel her disapproval. Her eyes told him that she knew exactly what he was trying to do.

“Alright.” She rose, then came over to him and stroked his forehead protectively. He submitted to it, mostly because he knew that protesting would upset her and he just wanted her to go without any further fussing. She looked into his eyes and sighed. “I’m glad I came to see you, Lee. And that you’re recovering.”

There was a faint questioning tone in her voice. Leon managed a smile. “I am. It was good to see you.”

When she had gone, he slumped back against the covers. He had thought that it would do him good to see his family, but somehow it had only served to make his mood worse. He thought of his brother, training to become a knight, and almost scowled.

Why did the idea trouble him so much? He hadn’t been so upset when Geoffrey had considered - briefly - joining training. Of course, none of them had ever believed that Geoff would have gone through with it. He had been destined for priesthood since he had been born. But those were really the two options for a lord’s younger son. No title to inherit, so it was either join the priesthood or become a knight. Leon had no patience with religion; Geoffrey had little skill with a sword. It had been simple for both of them. 

And Owain could handle a blade, as well, so where was the difficulty?

He sighed, suddenly restless despite the near-constant exhaustion which had been dogging him for the past few months. Perhaps it was simple jealousy. Not that he wanted to go back to being a squire - he still remembered the regular beatings during training fights, and his mentor Sir Tristan had been a believer that idleness was a sin approximately equal to blasphemy; for six years, ‘rest’ had simply been something which happened to other people. But he missed feeling useful almost as much as the fresh air and exercise. 

Leon was uncomfortably aware of how out-of-practice he would be once he began training again, despite his attempts. Even if his marksmanship hadn’t suffered too much - perhaps even improved, given how little else he had to occupy him - he knew that his handling of a blade would be clumsy at best. His leg had almost healed enough to permit walking, but it was still slow and painful even with a crutch, and it would be a month or more before he was fit for active duty again. By that time it would be half a year since… since it had happened. 

The day couldn’t come soon enough. 

He had found himself becoming more and more brooding as the time went on, as the other knights came and went and fought and died without him. They were still searching for the Lady Morgana; Uther refused to give up hope that his ward would be found. Even after one of the search missions ended disastrously and an entire troop disappeared, with only Alfric and Connor stumbling back three days later to tell the tale. The knights were beginning to become discouraged. The missions were ranging further and further, into more and more dangerous territory, and there had been nothing to show for it. Not even a hint of the Lady Morgana. Olyvar confessed to Leon that he wasn’t sure if the Lady was even still alive.

Still Uther had faith that she would be found, and if the king believed, then Leon believed too. If he was being honest with himself, he simply wanted the opportunity to feel _useful_ again. He was sick of lying in bed. He was sick of his own thoughts, of the way his temper would fray now at the slightest provocation. He was sick of the guilt and the nightmares that had been haunting him for six months. He needed to escape.

And then, finally, Gaius pronounced his leg sufficiently healed for normal duty. Leon returned to the training field with no small amount of apprehension, both at what the enforced break had done to his abilities, and at how the other knights would react to his return. He didn’t want special treatment, but he knew that it had hardly been a standard leave of absence. There weren’t many other knights who could claim to have fought a dragon, not even the retired commanders who had served with Uther during the Purges. Even the fact that Leon hadn’t actually done any fighting didn’t seem to tarnish his reputation much. 

In a way that was useful; as a commander, he needed the respect of the men under him, and the circumstances of his promotion hadn’t exactly discouraged that. But it felt like cheating, like he hadn’t earned it. 

He told himself that it didn’t matter. His first patrol was simple, but it would require solid leadership; yet another scouting mission looking for the lost ward of the king. This time they had been ordered to go past the borders and into Cenred’s kingdom - a dangerous place to be now that the treaty was fracturing. To be found would almost certainly mean a fight. Leon was looking forwards to it. 

Normally, he wouldn’t relish the prospect of danger so much. Sometimes he alarmed himself, with how eager he now was to put himself in harm’s way. He had always had a reputation for being solid, dependable - even a little dull. Not a man to be reckless or overly rash. He knew that the knights under his command were happy with him, in a large part because of that fact. Leon wouldn’t get them killed with foolish risk-taking. 

_I won’t_ , he promised himself, but he knew now that he would have to fight against a part of him which _wanted_ to. _I have to deserve it_ , that part said, and _death or glory_.

He didn’t admit it to anyone else - not to Olyvar or Benifred, or even Prince Arthur. Sometimes not even to himself. But when he was alone, when he woke gasping and sweating from yet another nightmare in the dead of night, when he looked at his hands trembling in the light of the dying embers of the fire and no longer recognised them through all of the scars… When he questioned whether he could trust himself anymore to make the right decision when lives hung in the balance, and found that he no longer knew the answer. 

It frightened him. 


	4. In which we learn that Essetir is no longer a good holiday destination

“Perhaps we should head back,” said one of the younger knights, worrying at his lip with his teeth. “I don’t like the look of this. It’s too quiet.”

Leon agreed with him; there was something wrong with the forest. The fog clung to the trees like moss dripping from the branches, muffling the sounds of their feet. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest. 

It felt good. He felt alive again.

“We keep going,” he said. “Keep an eye out.”

Behind him, he saw two of the other knights exchange wide-eyed glances. Were they starting to doubt him? He had found himself worrying more and more as the mission continued. He wasn’t sure he was ready for command. And yet, six months after the dragon - _dragon_ , his heart quivered, with a double-thump - six months after the dragon and he still hadn’t fully recovered. He _should_ have. He had trained, he had worked, he had practiced every day until his broken leg was stronger than it had been even before. There was no reason he couldn’t be ready. No reason at all.

“Sir? The border’s miles back,” tried the young knight, again. “And it’s getting dark. Maybe we should return-“

Leon didn’t want to return. Something wasn’t right about these woods, and he wanted to find out what.

He wanted to _fight_. He wanted something to sink his sword into and feel it jerk and die. 

He stopped, suddenly, alarmed by his own bloodthirsty thoughts. It was then he realised what he was doing. He was leading his whole troop into danger, unnecessarily. For what? To follow some insane desire to prove himself?

He nodded. “We head back. We’ll scout back here in the morning.”

Leon noticed one of the knights sigh with relief as they turned back. He realised that the men under his command weren’t doubting him - they were afraid of him. They were afraid that their own commander would get them killed. That his recklessness would lead to their deaths. He suddenly realised that he was afraid of that, too.

He sat alone, that night, away from the fire. They were safely back within their own borders, but he was badly shaken. The nightmares, the snapping at servants, the sudden attacks of inexplicable fear - he hadn’t realised, but they were all part of it. The dragon had changed him. Changed who he was. He was strangely frightened that he might have forgotten how to be himself. What if he never returned to normal? What if this _was_ normal, now? 

Was this his punishment? For surviving when the others had not? Would he watch himself become more and more surly and reckless, watch the men under his command die because he couldn’t bring himself to admit that he needed help?

_I don't need help_ , he thought, automatically. _This is my burden to bear alone._

He looked at the other men in his troop. They were a small band, only five other knights beside him, and tonight they were all sombre. A third day had brought no news of Lady Morgana - or, indeed, of anyone in these parts. Their daily sorties into Cenred’s lands had been disturbingly quiet. Leon considered the possibility that Cenred’s men didn’t know of their existence, and weighed it up against the possibility that they _did_ know, and were simply waiting for the right moment to attack. It could be either. 

He was almost wishing for a fight. That surprised him. He had never understood bloodlust before - for him, killing was an unavoidable evil, and not one to be enjoyed. But now he wanted to plunge his sword deep into something and watch the life drain out of it in fits and jerks. 

A crow croaked from a nearby tree. Unbidden, he remembered the crows fighting over one of the horses’ eyes after the dragon, flurrying upwards like ashes from a long-dead fire, and felt another stab of bloodied anger. He wanted to seize his crossbow and knock the bird from the branch, watch it struggle in a pile of gore and feathers- 

He shook his head again, and realised that he was trembling gently. He glanced at the other knights. They hadn’t noticed yet - but if he didn’t keep himself under tighter control, they soon would. He was frightened. Frightened that the bloodlust was here to stay, that he could never go back to the man he had been before. What would he do, if that was true? He couldn’t remain a commander. Not with such foolish disregard for safety. A knight’s job was to keep the peace, not shatter it. He would have to leave, find a job as a mercenary, somewhere far away. 

_I’ve changed_ , he thought, despairingly. _And not for the better_. It made him feel suddenly and inexpressibly weary. Tired of everything - tired of nightmares, tired of people expecting him to function normally, tired of pretending that he was fine. He wasn’t. He could lie to his mother, he could lie to his friends, he could even lie to himself… but the truth was, he hadn’t been fine ever since the dragon. 

He had thought that it was simply boredom, that once he was out and on patrols and keeping busy, that it would all go away. It hadn’t. It was worse than ever out here. And now he could no longer pretend to himself that everything would get better if only… _If only_. If only he did this, if only he went here. He would be well again if only he paid his penance. 

But he wouldn’t. 

He didn’t know how to go back to his old self. Didn’t even know if it was possible.

Leon took first watch that night; if nothing else, it gave him an excuse to be alone.

 

*     *     *

 

The next morning they set out again - further into Cenred’s territory. The forest was still unnervingly silent, the only sound the soft patter of rain on leaves as they made their way deeper and deeper into enemy territory. They were using rough animal tracks; trying to travel along roads would have been nearly suicidal, considering the consequences of being found by the Essetirans. Soon, it got too dense for horses to travel quietly; they had to leave them behind, tied to a tree and munching their nosebags to keep them quiet. 

Leon wasn’t even sure what they were looking for any more. Tracks of a young woman, being carried by force? Hardly likely. As if it were possible to tell by a bent stalk of grass whether it was a man or a woman, young or old, going willingly or not. And any evidence of a camp was almost certainly just a patrol, or merchants. There was no way they would find the Lady Morgana like this. It had been so long that she had been missing that it would be impossible to just stumble upon her by now. Wherever it was, it was well-hidden. They needed to ask locals whether they had seen or heard anything. 

_There are two main problems with that approach_ , thought Leon, wryly. First, in Essetir, talking to locals would probably get Camelot knights thrown in a dungeon. Second, there were no locals here anyway. Which, he supposed, solved the first problem - but got them no closer to finding the Lady Morgana than if they had stayed in the castle and thrown darts at a map of the kingdom. He sighed. 

He was tired; he had barely slept the night before, even once his watch had ended. He was no longer sure that being alone was good for him - thinking only seemed to make things worse. He felt like he was trapped inside his own head. But he had no other option out here; a commander had no right to share his concerns with his men, and the young knights around him were anxious enough as it was. He glanced at them; barely old enough to have earned their spurs, apart from Ulfric, and despite the determination in their eyes he could see the tension etched into every muscle. 

Oswold noticed him looking. “Perhaps we should-“

“No. We go forwards.” Leon knew what the man would ask, and he knew that he wouldn’t grant it. They had orders, and those orders were to search as far as the edge of the forest. They weren’t there yet. And the sooner they reached the end of the mission, the sooner they could head back to Camelot.

“Wait,” said one of the knights. “Listen.”

They all paused. Faintly, Leon heard what it was that had made the young man stop.

Hoofbeats.

A galloping horse. Maybe more than one - it was hard to tell. He felt his muscles tense and saw an identical strain of the faces of the other knights. Was it Cenred’s men? Had they finally found the group - or was it simply travellers on a nearby road?

They stood in silence, listening. 

The hoofbeats faded into nothing. Leon held the position for a minute longer, straining his ears for the sound of approaching men. 

Still nothing.

He was about to move on when one of the others held up a hand. The sound of pounding hoofbeats came again - this time, from a completely different direction to before. The six knights whirled around, trying to place the sound, painfully aware of how far into enemy territory they were. Leon began calculating the best course of retreat. It was not simply a matter of survival; discovery in Cenred’s lands would have far-reaching consequences for the relations of the two kingdoms. The peace was fragile, and now that Leon was privy to royal councils, he knew that Cenred would leap on any excuse to restart hostilities. They couldn’t afford to give him that chance, and that meant that they couldn’t afford to be found patrolling in his lands. 

The hoofbeats disappeared again, only to reappear half a minute later, again from a different direction. Leon felt his heart rate beginning to increase. It was difficult to determine the direction, but the chances that they were simple travellers were getting smaller by the second. They seemed to be deliberately trying to disguise their numbers and intentions. And Leon was humiliated to realise that it was working. He had no idea how many there were, where they were coming from, what they were doing, or how much they knew. He had no idea whether his troop was in serious trouble, or simply jumping at shadows.

He didn’t _like_ not knowing. He wanted information. Perhaps he should send out a scout-

Leon saw the uncertainty in the eyes of his men. The hoofbeats continued to fade in and out of hearing, difficult to place, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. There was real fear in the knights’ eyes. He hesitated. 

“Back to the horses,” he said, softly. “Split into pairs. Alwyn, with me. We’ll lead them away from the others. Avoid being seen at all costs. We’ll regroup inside our own borders.”

Alwyn’s pale throat jumped as he swallowed his fear. The others exchanged worried glances and nodded. 

The pair of them moved forwards, in the direction of where the hoofbeats had come from last. If he was honest with himself, Leon wasn’t sure why he had done it. It would have been equally sensible for them all to simply melt into the forest and return to their borders. It wasn’t hard for six men to disappear in the woods. Perhaps it was simply that he was tired of skulking around, of hiding. It was a risky plan, but the risk was somehow part of its attraction. 

They crossed a road carefully, watching intently for any signs of the mysterious enemy. The hoofbeats came again, closer this time, and slightly west of their position. That was the direction Oswold and Tom had headed. Leon reached up to the nearest tree and snapped off a branch, deliberately and loudly. He saw Alwyn’s instinctive wince. 

“Come on,” he said, and started west, not bothering to move quietly. The hoofbeats stopped. They were close enough to hear, very faintly, the voices of the riders. 

The sound of horses moving towards them. Leon smiled tautly. _We lead, they follow_. He and Alwyn hurried north, along a rough path, ducking under trees. No sense in making it easy for their pursuers. 

The hoofbeats faded away, so Leon kicked at a nearby bush, sending the leaves rustling and a pair of pigeons flurrying upwards from their perch. That would certainly draw attention. 

His plan worked; the hoofbeats started again, louder, faster than before. Cenred’s men had certainly taken the bait now.

“Sir-“ Alwyn sounded tense, although he was clearly trying to hide it. 

“They’re following,” said Leon, with satisfaction.

“They’ll catch us.”

Leon didn’t bother replying; he was too focused on trying to hear where Cenred’s men were. It sounded like they had split up, trying to outflank them or cut them off. _A fair strategy_.

He led Alwyn back the way they had come. If the men were flanking them, they must have left the way behind open. They wouldn’t be expecting their quarry to turn back on themselves, which left Leon with the perfect opportunity to lose them and return to Camelot lands while they cast about for the fish missing from their net. 

The two knights moved quietly now, ears straining for the sounds of Cenred’s men realising that they had lost them and coming back. Leon was concentrating so hard that he almost didn’t notice that they had reached the road again. Or the figures waiting for them there.

Their way was blocked by three men, on horseback. They looked as startled as Leon was; clearly they hadn’t actually expected the knights to turn around, even if they had been positioned there to cut off their escape. He felt a curious rush of calm as the two sides faced one another. Finally. A chance for some action. 

Beside him, Alwyn gulped, nervously. The boy was young, and inexperienced. This could even be his first real encounter with an enemy. Leon hoped that he wouldn’t panic and do something they would all regret. 

“Camelot knights,” said one of Cenred’s men, shortly. “What is the meaning of this?”

Leon’s hand was on his sword, but he made an effort not to grip it. Until weapons were drawn, this was a peaceful encounter. He hoped Alwyn had the sense to do the same.

“This is neutral ground,” he said, carefully.

“This is Cenred’s kingdom.” The man’s tone was threatening. “Explain your presence here.”

“Our kingdoms are at peace,” Leon reminded him. “We are simply passing through back to our own lands.”

“Your presence here is not welcome.”

Leon deliberately kept his voice even and reasonable. “We will leave, then.”

The man considered, laying one long finger on his sword hilt. “No.”

“No?”

“You will explain yourself to Cenred,” said the man. “Bring them.”

The men on either side of him advanced their horses. Beside him, Leon felt Alwyn tense, and then go to draw his sword.

“N-“ he tried, but he was too late. Alywn had the blade out and was holding it in front of him defensively. 

“You threaten us?” The man who had spoken before frowned dangerously.

The two men advanced, blades out. Leon still refused to draw his sword. “We can settle this peacefully,” he said. “Alwyn, sheathe your sword.”

He was too late. The younger knight was brave - or stupid - and his blood was up. He saw the men advancing on them and he was determined to fight. He eyed the men and lifted his blade threateningly.

“Stop,” ordered Leon, in a voice of steel. “Alwyn, _sheathe your sword_.”

“They’ll kill us,” said Alywn, not moving from his position.

“No. I want no bloodshed.”

Alwyn ignored him, and suddenly swung his sword at the nearest man. The soldier blocked reflexively, and his comrade hacked downwards swiftly. Alwyn screamed as the blade bit into his flesh. Leon’s shout of protest caught in his throat.

Before he knew what was happening, he had seized Alwyn by the cloak and pulled him away, ducking under the second swipe by Cenred’s men. There was a small cliff on the side of the track, and without thinking, he threw himself down it, dragging Alwyn with him.

He heard shouts behind them as they rolled down the slope, but it was too steep for the horses. They reached the bottom in a heap and Leon scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain. Beside him, Alwyn groaned. The blade had gone in deep, slicing into his shoulder, his chainmail shining silver where the links had been parted by the weight of the blow. Blood welled between the fingers he had clamped to the wound. 

He groaned again, tried to rise, and crumpled into a heap. Leon glanced up at the top of the slope; Cenred’s men were standing at the top, obviously considering the best way to reach them. He saw the leader point to the left and right, ordering the other two men to go around and flank them. Without proof, this couldn’t be used as an excuse to restart hostilities; Cenred’s men needed something of Camelot. Leon was determined not to give it to them.

“Come on,” he said, hooking an arm around Alwyn’s good shoulder. “We need to get to the horses. To the border.”

Alwyn groaned again, but stumbled to his feet unsteadily and allowed Leon to take most of his weight. Gone was the brave young knight; he was just a pale and frightened boy now, gritting his teeth against the pain. Leon felt the heavy weight of responsibility alongside the pressure on his shoulders. He had led Alwyn into this; he had known what could have happened. He could have prevented the bloodshed.

They stumbled along together, heading directly for the border now. Leon listened for the pounding of hooves as they went, dreading the moment when Cenred’s men caught up with them. He took them on a route which would be hard to follow; dense undergrowth, low-hanging branches, unstable terrain and steep slopes. He could feel Alwyn weakening beside him; the boy stumbled more and more often, and his face grew paler and paler as his cloak became sodden and heavy with blood. 

Finally he stumbled again and could not get up. Leon tugged at his shoulders, but he was a dead weight now; he simply no longer had the strength to stand. They were so close to where they had left the horses now - a few more minutes and they would be safe.

It was lucky that Alwyn wasn’t one of the broad-shouldered, tall knights. The boy was just about light enough for Leon to carry him, even if the extra weight slowed him down even further. Still, it was better than the alternative, which was to leave him to be found and taken back to Cenred and used to restart a war with Camelot. Leon heard hoofbeats behind him and struggled onwards, trying to quicken his pace, ignoring the aching of his muscles and his breath scraping in his chest. Almost there, now, nearly there, so close…

“Sir Leon!” Ulric burst out of the bushes nearby, followed closely by two of the others. He took in the situation at a glance. “What happened?”

Leon allowed them to take Alwyn as he tried to get his breath back. “Horses?”

“Here. Are they following?”

“Yes. Close. Take Alywn. Over the border. I’ll draw them away.”

“Are you sure-?” They were already at the horses, with Oswold holding the reins of all six beasts. The others helped lift Alywn into his saddle as he groaned. Leon mounted Gywndor and reined around, facing the direction Cenred’s men would be coming from. Behind him, he could hear the knights mounting up. 

“Sir Leon. What are your orders?”

He turned. “All of you, ride hard for the border. Once you’re there, head for Benetston. I’ll meet you there.” He turned back; he could already hear hoofbeats and the barking of dogs. “If I don’t return in two days, ride for Camelot.”

He heard the men leave and wondered what they were thinking. It made no matter now, anyway. He had other things to worry about. Gwyndor sensed the danger and whinnied, jinking upwards on his hind legs, anxious for action. 

Leon held him steady for a few more moments, until the sound of the approaching men was so loud that they must have been within bowshot. Then he gave his horse the lightest nudge with his heels, and the stallion crashed forwards eagerly, snorting with impatience. Leon guided him at an angle, heading just close enough to the sounds of the men that they would get a glimpse of him while still allowing him a head-start.

The plan worked; he heard the dogs’ barking intensify as they noticed him, and a second later, shouts. He grinned to himself as he ducked under a branch. _This_ \- heart thudding, cloak flying, life surging through every limb with Gywndor’s hooves pounding beneath him - this was what being alive felt like. 

He hoped the others were following his orders. They would be safe in Benetston; there was no way Cenred’s men would follow them so far into Camelot lands. Particularly not if they thought they had a chance of capturing Leon. They only needed one Camelot knight to prove their story, after all. One scrap of a red cloak. 

They reached the road and Leon turned along it, trusting that the fresh hoofprints would be enough for the men to follow even if they could no longer see him. And he was outdistancing them; he had seen their horses, and they were no equals to his stallion. Already their shouts were becoming fainter, even if the barking of the dogs was not. They must have loosed the animals. 

If the dogs caught them, they would try to bring down Gwyndor, he knew. Dogs like that were trained to chase, trained to nip and bite at the vulnerable ankles, to harry and harass until the exhausted beast went down. _If_ they could catch him. Leon urged his horse onwards and Gwyndor answered with a fresh burst of speed, his ears up and his head high. He was more than a match for those dogs, and he knew it.

Leon wondered how far the others had got; they must have made it halfway to the border now. Had he given them enough of a lead? More importantly, were they far enough away that Cenred’s men wouldn’t bother trying to go back for the others, once Leon had lost them?

Probably. Now all Leon had to do was lose Cenred’s men. Simple enough, if he had known the terrain well, but this part of the land wasn’t on any of Camelot’s maps, and the Essetirans had never been willing to share information about their own kingdom. He hoped that he wasn’t about to charge into a lake or a river. 

Or a wall. Leon’s heart sank. There was a gate, but it was closed, and the drystone wall running across the road looked depressingly solid. Leon guided Gwyndor away from the road instead, parallel to the wall, running along it, back in the direction of Camelot’s border. If the wall had a gap in it, he could slip through and Cenred’s men would struggle to follow. If not… well, then he would follow it until it ended - and end it must, because there was no wall along the border road. 

End it did. In another wall.

Leon didn’t have time to curse the person who had built an open-ended field. He had run himself right into a corner, and there was no time now to head back. The wall wasn’t large; perhaps waist height, and not too thick either. He steeled his courage and urged Gwyndor onwards, feeling his heart beat in time to his horse’s galloping hooves. 

_We can make it. We can make it. We can make it we can make it we can-_

Gwyndor bunched up his hind quarters and leapt with a surge of power, straight and true. Gwyndor was a proud horse, a good horse, a horse bred for battle, bred to run unwavering at anything his rider asked him to - spears, shields, warriors.

Gwyndor was not a horse bred for jumping.

His hind legs caught on the top of the wall and suddenly Leon was being thrown violently from his saddle. The world became a blur of light and dark, and he hit the ground hard with his shoulder, smashing into the base of a tree trunk before he even realised what had happened.

His shoulder screamed at him. For a second Leon thought that he could actually hear it. Then he rolled over with a grunt and realised that it was Gwyndor who was screaming, Gwyndor lying with shattered forelegs, struggling to rise, his eyes wide and rolling with panic. His horse had botched the jump and broken both forelegs. Leon caught a sickening glimpse of bone, wet with dark blood, before Gwyndor arched his neck and screamed again.

Leon lurched over to his broken horse and drew his knife swiftly. No time to think about what he had to do.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” he said, and thrust the blade deep into the animal’s throat.

Gwyndor snorted, once, before the light died in his eyes, his blood running warm over Leon’s fingers. In the sudden silence, Leon heard barks. 

He struggled to his feet. He shouldn’t have forced Gwyndor to attempt the jump; he knew that. Now he had no horse - and by the feel of it, he had dislocated his shoulder in the fall. It was agony. He wanted to scream.

The dogs were coming closer. 

Leon felt panic burning in his throat. Before, he had had every chance of outrunning the men and their hounds. Now, on foot, and injured… But he had no choice. Cenred’s men must have heard the horse’s screams; they knew exactly where he was. They would be following. He had to move.

He moved. Wrapping his injured arm in his cloak to keep it as still as possible, he picked up his sword from where it had been strapped to Gwyndor’s saddle and ran, dodging around trees and gritting his teeth against the pain. There would be time to see to his shoulder later, he hoped. And if there wasn’t… well, then he would have bigger things to worry about.


	5. In which Essetir's border security is put to the test

Leon’s shoulder was agony. Every step sent a spike of pain through him, despite his clumsy attempts at a sling, and the pain was worsening as exhaustion began to set in and his muscles stiffened with the effort of running. The men chasing would have probably gone around the wall, he knew; they wouldn’t have risked their horses, especially with the stark warning of poor Gwyndor lying on the other side. At least they wouldn’t gain anything from his horse; none of the tack was identifiable as Camelot-made, so they couldn’t take it as evidence. For that they needed _him_.

But then, they could afford to take their time now. A man on foot could never outrun a horse for long. Leon’s only hope was to find somewhere safe to hide until they stopped looking; he knew he was too far from the border to have a chance at making it. He wondered what they would do if they caught him; would they take him to Cenred, or would they simply kill him and bring the corpse? In a way, he would rather it was the latter. Better that than to live with the shame. 

He jumped over a small stream and slipped on the rocks the other side, gritting his teeth against the fresh shiver of pain from his shoulder before forcing himself back up again. He couldn’t hear hoofbeats, yet, but he knew that they were coming. An unhorsed knight of Camelot was too great a prize to give up so easily, especially while he was still on the wrong side of the border. 

But there was nowhere to hide. No convenient cave, no rocks with a gap small enough to crawl into - not even any dense bushes with leaves which could disguise his red cloak. Not for the first time, he wished Camelot’s colours were green or brown or grey. Anything but red. Red was all very well for impressing commoners at tournaments, but it wasn’t exactly subtle. 

He kept running because there was nothing else he could do, even though his breath was raw in his chest and his vision was beginning to swim. At least he was headed in the right direction - surely the border couldn’t be too far now? He focused on that rather than the knowledge, in the back of his mind, that Cenred’s men would probably chase him across the border, and keep chasing until they were too close to a settlement to continue. He just needed to _reach_ the border, and then he could deal with that. Maybe.

Faintly, he heard the sound of hoofbeats, and somehow found the energy for a fresh burst of speed. Looking behind him was a mistake; he shouldered a tree and the tearing jolt of pain took the legs out from under him. 

Now he was really beginning to be frightened. He had little doubt that Cenred’s men would kill him, if they caught him - or at least take him back to their capital, and then kill him at their leisure. And now he was at least a league from the border and on foot, and they had horses and dogs… 

He struggled to his feet and forced himself to keep running. The barking of dogs behind him was getting louder; loud enough to eclipse his own rough breathing and the rushing of blood in his ears. He wished that there was something else he could do - some way he could outsmart the men, or get a message to Ulrich and the other knights… but there was nothing. Nothing but to keep running, and not stop until he was safe, captured, or dead. 

He kept running.

The dusk came gently, with nothing more than a simple darkening of the forest through the rain, and found Leon huddled up a tree overhanging a small brook. It wasn’t the best cover, but he had crossed the stream, carried on for a few hundred yards, and then doubled back on himself and waded through the shallow water until he’d found a branch to scramble up on to. He hoped that his precautions would mean that the dogs lost his trail and Cenred’s men would be forced to give up. 

He knew that it wasn’t very likely; even if their trail went cold, his pursuers would know that there was no way he could have made it to the border yet. Unless they were as wet and cold as he was, they would probably be determined enough to keep going for another few hours at least. 

Climbing the tree had been difficult, but at least he was better hidden that he had been before. He had wrapped his injured shoulder in his cloak, but the muscles around it were seizing up and beginning to spasm, sending ripples of pain along his arm whenever he shifted position. It was a willow tree, branches hanging low over the water, and that meant that he was relatively well-hidden by the leaves, but it still felt horribly insecure as he strained his ears for the sounds of humans or dogs. If they found him here, there was no way of escaping.

Still, it was better than nothing. All he had to do was wait until morning. Cenred’s men wouldn’t stay out much longer than that, particularly since it would have been more than enough time for him to make it past the border by then. He shuffled his feet a little on his branch, and braced his back against the trunk. Not exactly the most comfortable position; but then, with the wet and the cold and the pain from his arm - not to mention the constant fear of discovery - it wasn’t like he was going to get much rest anyway.

The rain was intensifying. _Good_ , was Leon’s first thought, _the dogs won’t be able to track my scent in this._ His second thought - flicking a strand of wet hair from his eyes - was that what was already going to be a mildly uncomfortable night was now looking to become _extremely_ uncomfortable.

When the stories told of the heroism of the knights of Camelot, they rarely mentioned the parts about being perched awkwardly up a tree in the pouring rain as the darkness gathered and his sword hilt dug painfully into his thigh. Leon felt like some ridiculous great red bird. With increasingly bedraggled and tattered feathers. _All I need now is a beak_. 

He wondered what had become of Alwyn and the others. With any luck, they must be safe and in the inn at Benetston by now. He hoped Alwyn was alright - it had been a nasty slash in his shoulder, and by the looks of it, he had been losing blood fast. _Two days_ , he had told them. Two days before they gave him up for dead or captured. He tried to calculate. How many leagues to the border - and then how many again to Benetston? If he began to move in the morning…?

If he had still had a horse, he could easily be back by midday. On foot… 

On foot and leagues from anywhere that was remotely close to safety. On foot and half-frozen to the bone. On foot, and with an arm which felt like it was on fire despite the rain soaking through his undertunic. 

He could still make it, he supposed. If he pushed himself. At this particular moment, he had never felt less like pushing himself in his life, but he knew that come morning he would have to move on. He needed to return to his men - and more importantly, he needed to get out of Cenred’s lands. Benetston was little more than a hamlet, but it was beyond the Essetirans’ reach and that was what mattered. 

He was trying to distract himself; it wasn’t working. Everything was soaked and freezing, and each shiver sent sharp judders of pain through his body. His chainmail felt like ice where it touched his skin and his legs were cramping from balancing on the branch for so long. He cursed his own stupidity for getting himself into this situation. He had been a rash fool, and he was paying for it now. 

He remembered the feeling he had had earlier, when they had first come upon Cenred’s men. And again, with Gywndor’s hooves pounding beneath him and the soldiers giving chase. A feeling of freedom, of recklessness. That fierce _joy_ at being alive. He hadn’t felt like that in far too long, he realised. 

Not since… well, not for seven months. 

 

*     *     *

 

Leon didn’t remember much of the journey between the border and Benetston. He had left his tree before dawn, as soon as the sky had begun to lighten, and by mid-afternoon he had hit the road between Benetston and Elversfield. Then it was just a question of following it eastwards until he reached the village. He had hoped to perhaps meet someone on the way - a merchant, a farmer, anyone - but the first human he saw was on the outskirts of the village itself. 

She stopped from where she had been milking a cow and stared as he staggered past. He supposed she had a right to; he must look a state. He hadn’t slept at all, and his arm was agonisingly stiff. Leon met her eyes and saw her duck her head, embarrassed.

“Camelot knights,” he said, pausing to lean gratefully on the fence. “Have you - do you know if they’re here?”

She gazed at him wide-eyed. “The inn,” she said, pointing further along the road. 

“Thank you.” He pushed himself away from the fence and carried on. A few houses down, and he spotted Ulric, leaning against the hitching post of the inn and looking bored. He saw the knight’s eyes widen as he spotted Leon. He made as if to hurry inside, then changed his mind and ran towards his commander.

“Sir Leon! We were worried-”

“Ulric. Good to see you.” 

Ulric reached him and looked him over with concern. “You’re hurt! And where’s your horse? What happened? Did Cenred’s men-?”  
Leon sighed. “Lost them. Lost Gwyndor jumping a fence. Is Alywn-?”

“He made it. Barely. He’s hurt pretty badly - the innkeeper’s wife is looking after him. What happened to your arm?”

“Dislocated. Gwyndor threw me.”

“So Cenred’s men-“

“Have nothing.”

Ulric smiled wryly. “That’s a relief.”

“Aye. We’ll head back to Camelot as soon as we’re able.”

They had reached the door of the inn; Ulric pushed it open. “He’s back,” he called. “It’s alright.”

Leon saw Tom and Oswold look up from where they had been sitting at one of the tables. Alwyn was there, too, looking pale and leaning against the wall heavily. His shoulder was covered in bandages. Marcus was at the bar, talking quietly to a woman who must have been the innkeeper’s wife. He broke off the conversation.

“Captain Leon!”

Leon smiled through his tiredness. “None other.”

Tom stood up and glanced at the others. “What happened? You should have been back yesterday - did Cenred’s men-?”

“Didn’t catch me. Tried to jump a fence with Gwyndor and got thrown. He broke his legs, so I had to go on foot. Spent a night up a tree,” explained Leon, sinking gratefully into the nearest seat. “Alwyn, how’s the arm?”

He shrugged his good shoulder and winced. “I’ll live.”

“Learnt your lesson, I should hope,” muttered Ulric. “Disobeying a direct command…”

Alwyn grimaced. “I know. I’m sorry, captain. I shouldn’t have- I should have listened to you.”

“You should,” agreed Leon. “We all make mistakes. Don’t let it happen again.”

Alwyn looked like he was about to say something more, then shut his mouth. “No, sir.”

“Do we have rooms here?” asked Leon, changing the subject. “I’d like to get out of this thrice-cursed chainmail.”

“Of course. Stay as long as you need,” said the woman, bustling forwards and bobbing in a curtsy. “Always proud to cater for Camelot knights.”

“Many thanks. Could I trouble you for some hot water, as well? I need to see to my shoulder, but the muscles are so stiff I don’t think it’ll go back in at the moment.” Leon had never dislocated his own arm before, but it was a common enough injury among the knights that most of them knew how to treat it without a physician.

The others pushed it back in for him, once they had loosened it up with a warm bath: Tom and Marcus helping to keep his torso still while Ulric heaved on the limb. Leon managed not to cry out until he felt the bone pop back into place and he gasped with the relief of it. It still ached, but it was nowhere close to the constant agony of before. The innkeeper’s wife bound it up with swift, efficient movements, and daubed some kind of stinging liquid on the grazes he hadn’t even known he’d had. 

Leon felt a lot better for a hot meal and a change of clothes, and even more so after a full night’s sleep. The mission may have been close to disaster - and with no sign of the Lady Morgana, it would officially be considered a failure - but at least they had come through with everyone alive. And they hadn’t given the Essetirans an excuse for war, although they had come perilously close. That made it a success, in his mind.

Still, it was a sombre troop who rode out of Benetston the next morning. All of the knights were aware of how near they had been to catastrophe. They didn’t blame him; in fact, they saw him as the one who had saved them from disaster. He wasn’t sure he saw it that way himself - he knew that it had been his actions which had put them in danger in the first place. But it made no matter now; it was in the past.

 

*     *     *

 

Alwyn was bundled off to Gaius as soon as they reached the castle, while Leon and the others were summoned to a debriefing with the prince. Not the king: it wasn’t important enough to tell him about yet another failed mission to find the Lady Morgana. Arthur listened closely to their account, offered some brief praise that they had managed to get back safely, and then left with the troubled frown etched even more deeply into his brows.

Six months without news of the King’s ward was not only a heartache for the royal family; it was an embarrassment to the entire kingdom. That someone so close to the seat of power could simply be spirited away without trace did not bode well for the security of the throne.

Now, more than ever, Camelot needed a solid reputation of strength and unity. To the north, the peace with Essetir was splintering by the second. From the south, Camelot’s former ally King Marc had been replaced with the Irish usurper Rience, who had already murdered two royal families to seize Ireland and Cornwall for his own. Now Marc was dead, his sons missing, and Cornwall firmly under Rience’s control. Queen Isolde had fled to Camelot’s court and was under their protection, but that didn’t change the fact that Camelot had done nothing to save its ally. King Caerleon to the east refused to declare any allegiance, but he had rebuffed their envoys and was threatening to restrict trade through his lands.

Camelot needed friends, and it needed to convince them that the kingdom was worth forging an alliance with. And yet they had been unable to prevent Ireland’s armies marching on Cornwall, and they had been unable to prevent the kidnapping of the Lady Morgana, and now they were even struggling to avoid border skirmishes with a supposedly-neutral neighbour.

Leon knew that Arthur was worrying about more than simply finding his adopted sister. Of all of the invitations to the kingdom they had sent out, only King Lot of Orkney had accepted. His armies were expansive and partly composed of fierce warriors from the Northlands, making him a potentially valuable ally. But his kingdom was far to the north - even if they forged a bond, it would be unlikely that troops would reach the kingdom in time to repel a sudden attack.

Perhaps an allegiance with Orkney meant war. Perhaps it was less about having a friend to call for if Camelot was attacked, and more about recruiting troops and commanders to launch a campaign on one of their restless neighbours. Expansion to the north seemed the obvious solution; if King Lot attacked from above, and Camelot sent in troops from below, King Cenred would be forced to split his armies and fight on two fronts. Annexing Essetir certainly made military sense, especially given Cenred’s fondness for border skirmishes and blocking trade caravans.

But Orkney and Essetir were not at war, and Leon privately thought that the King would have a hard time convincing King Lot to provide troops for an invasion when he stood to gain so little and lose so much. Still, that was hardly any of Leon’s concern. It was for the King and the Prince to decide on the politics of the kingdom.

Leon’s main thoughts now was hardly about affairs of state, anyhow. They had ridden hard from Benetston and all he truly wanted was a good soak and a solid meal. He had things to do before he could start thinking about himself, though. He started off by heading to Gaius’ rooms to check on Alwyn. The boy was sitting up on the edge of a table, bare-chested, while the physician wound bandages around his shoulder.

“You didn’t find her, then?” said Gaius, not looking up as Leon knocked and entered. Merlin glanced over at him from where he was sitting on the table opposite them, swinging his legs.

“Not this time,” said Leon.

“Found yourself some trouble instead, I see,” Gaius sounded faintly disapproving. Alwyn looked remarkably guilty, as if he were a schoolchild caught misbehaving by his teacher rather than a young knight in the prime of his life.

“He’ll recover, though?” asked Leon.

“Mm. In three or four weeks, I should think. Don’t overuse it before then,” warned Gaius, severely. “And you must rest for at least five days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s not a knight, Alwyn,” said Leon, amused. “You don’t need to call everyone ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir - I mean, captain - I mean, sir.” Alwyn looked confused. Gaius raised an eyebrow at Leon and Merlin stifled a grin.

“You’re done, then,” said Gaius, to save him from embarrassment. “Remember: rest. And find someone to fetch me if it feels worse or you think you’re taking a fever.”

Alywn nodded and eased himself off the table, wincing at the movement. He nodded again to Leon as he left, still looking sheepish.

Gaius shook his head as the knight left. “He’s very young,” he said, sighing.

“I remember the days when you used to say that about me.”

“You’re still very young,” said Gaius, his eyebrow firmly up. “What’s troubling you?”

Leon looked surprised. “Nothing. I just came to check on Alwyn.”

“Mm.” Gains didn’t sound convinced. “And how is your leg?”

“Fine. Strong. I spent a night crouched up a tree in the rain and it barely ached.”

“Didn’t ache, or barely ached?”

“Barely,” conceded Leon.

“Your shoulder?”

“Hardly worth mentioning.”

Gaius gave him a shrewd look. “And the nightmares?”

Leon thought about lying, then gave it up. Gaius was trying to help, after all. “Not so often as before.”

“There’s still the potion…”

“I know.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. For half a second, Leon wondered about telling Gaius everything - his newfound recklessness, the bloodlust, the thrill of danger. How much it frightened him.

“I should be going, then,” he said, instead. “Thanks for your help.”

Gaius gave him an odd look, but didn’t comment. As the door closed behind him, Leon heard his assistant beginning to ask why he had refused the potion. Gaius’ answer was lost as he headed down the stairs. He was almost glad of that - he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the physician thought of him.


	6. In which we learn that Orcadians are fun

The entire castle was in a frenzy of activity. The impending visit of King Lot was the only thing anyone would talk about. For the knights, it was the tournament which was the subject of endless speculation, jokes and taunts. For the servants, Leon learned from Guinevere - who was now a lady’s maid for the exiled Queen Isolde - it was the number of rooms the king and his entourage would need, and the food, and the fires, and the silver to polish. For Prince Arthur, the king, and the council, it was the diplomatic wrangling which was the sole focus of every conversation.

King Lot had a daughter - the Princess Hildegard - and since she was now of marriageable age, there was speculation from all sides about whether or not a match would be proposed with the Prince. Marriage would certainly cement any alliance. Of course it wouldn’t make Arthur an heir to Orkney - Lot also had no less than four sons, all but one older than his daughter - but ties of blood would make it almost impossible for him to refuse Camelot troops, should the need arise.

Following the success of their sortie into Cenred’s lands - although it didn’t feel like much of a success, with Alwyn still laid up in bed and no trace of the Lady Morgana found - Leon had been chosen to lead the escort of King Lot and his entourage through the borderlands. The royal party was large, if reports were anything to go by - the king himself, his daughter and youngest son, and four of his lords and their families, on top of a guard of knights and soldiers. Occasions like this were seen as the perfect opportunity to seek out suitable matches for highborn sons and daughters, so it was hardly surprising that they had brought such a large escort.

Leon had command of four other knights - Osric, Connor, Edric, and Kay - and five guardsmen. They were to meet King Lot and his party at the northeastern border, since it offered the shortest route through Cenred’s lands, and bring them directly to Camelot. Leon hoped that King Cenred wouldn’t try anything, but he must surely have known what a threat to him an alliance between Orkney and Camelot would be. Orkney itself had been a tiny kingdom before Lot’s time - just a handful of islands off the northern tip of the mainland - but his aggressive expansion in the early days of his reign had seen it flourish until it was at almost as big as Camelot herself. Granted, most of that was wild lands with few inhabitants and even fewer towns, but the Orcadians didn’t have a reputation as fierce warriors for nothing.

It was three days’ hard ride from the meeting point to Camelot - not that they would be riding hard after they had met up with King Lot and his men. The first day would be the most dangerous, since it was closest to Essetiran lands and it would be easy for Cenred’s soldiers to slip across the border and prepare an ambush. From there, it was closer and closer to Camelot heartlands, which meant that the only remaining danger would be bandits bold enough to attack a large, armed group. Bandits, Leon could handle; his worry was that Cenred might be planning an attack once the group crossed the border.

Leon and his troop rode out four days before King Lot was due to reach the border. Three days to reach the point, and then a further one to rest, scout the area, and prepare for the King’s arrival. He felt the heavy weight of responsibility - a bad first impression could completely sink the entire alliance, and it was the first time he’d had command in such a situation.

They reached the rendezvous without mishap, late in the afternoon of the third day. King Lot was due to arrive after midday on the forth, so Leon sent three of the guards to scout the area while they set up camp. The early autumn chill sliced through the air, the wind keen and sharp. There would be frosts before long, and in a few weeks the wolves would begin coming down from the mountains.

The borderlands were wild and barren, the few trees there were already stripped of most of their leaves. The border marker on the road was unimpressive - just a large stone, carved with ‘Camelot’ on one side and ‘Essetir’ on the other. Hardly a grand entrance, but the pageantry when they reached the castle would hopefully make up for that. Leon stood in the centre of the road, squinting down towards Essetir. No sign of the party, yet, but probably they would have already made camp by now and strike out in the morning.

He could understand why this section of the border was rarely disputed; there was nothing here to fight over but gorse. A difficult place to mount an ambush, as well - the hills were open and mostly bare, with no places to hide. He reassured himself that they would see the Essetirans coming from a mile away, if they tried to attack.

The scouts reported nothing unusual, but Leon sent out more the next morning just to be sure. The others waited in camp, polishing their armour and brushing the horses until they shone, fiddling with buckles and adjusting straps until everything sat perfectly. Leon checked over his new horse carefully, making sure that it was healthy and well-rested; he had spent a fair bit of his savings on it, and he wanted to make sure that it had been worth the money. She was a well-built bay mare, with a proud, arched neck and a long stride, and so far she had performed well - but it felt odd to be riding anything other than Gwyndor.

Around midday, the scouts got back. They had seen nothing out of the ordinary, except for the Orcadians themselves - the group’s blue and white banners were perhaps a few hours away. Leon resisted the temptation to ride out to meet them; the troop waited patiently until a rider approached from the direction of Essetir, travelling at an easy canter and carrying a flag bearing the standard of King Lot.

“Camelot?” he called, once he was within shouting distance.

“Welcome,” Leon called back, and the rider spurred his horse on to approach them.

“Praise the gods we’re finally here,” he said, smiling at the troop. “You’re sent here to escort us?”

“Yes. My name is Sir Leon. We’re to bring you to the city.”

“Excellent. The rest of them are on their way,” said the rider, his accent broad but understandable. “We’ll keep going a few more hours, I think.”

Leon nodded, although the man’s manner was surprisingly informal for an envoy. “You’ve had no trouble on the road?”

The man shrugged, stroking his horse’s neck as it tried a warning snap at one of Camelot’s mounts. “Nothing serious. King Cenred seems to be keeping himself to himself. One of our horses went lame, but nothing worse than that.”

“We have remounts,” said Leon, gesturing to the three horses they had brought with them.

The man grinned. “Good Camelot hospitality already, I see. We’ll accept them with thanks. Will you ride back to the caravan with me?”

“Of course,” said Leon, even though he hadn’t been expecting such an invitation at all. Orcadian customs were apparently a fair bit less formal than he was used to. He nudged the bay forwards, then turned to face his men. “Sir Edric?”

Sir Edric nodded that he would accept command until Leon returned - by which time the Orcadian rider had already clicked his horse on and was cantering back down the road. Leon saw two of the others exchange glances before he turned to follow.

The Orcadian rode easily, his whole body relaxed in the saddle in a way which made it hard to believe the speed at which the were travelling. His stallion was obviously well-cared-for, but compared to Camelot horses it looked stocky and heavily built, its coat long and its fetlocks almost touching the ground. He was dressed similarly; his clothes looked well-made, even rich, but they were also practical and a little travel-stained. He was old for an outrider, with grey hairs among the dark reddish-brown and a scar running over one eyebrow, but he still looked strong and he rode like a far younger man.

“So,” said the man, conversationally, “what news from Camelot? Any word of the King’s ward?”

Leon had wondered how long it would be before that particular subject came up. He had been dreading it, but at least if he told the outrider, he might not have to speak of it directly to the king.

“None yet. We’re still searching.”

“A bad business,” the man said, almost sympathetically. “Although it will happen if you make an enemy of warlocks. They have ways and means the likes of you and me will never understand.”

Leon nodded noncommittally; he didn’t feel qualified to comment. “And Orkney? Is all well?”

The man grinned. “If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t have left to come here. Aye, the kingdom’s at peace for now. A hard harvest this autumn, but we’ll manage.” The Orcadian party was beginning to come into view around the next rise, and he urged his horse onwards. “Come on - let’s see if Camelot horses are any match for my Siobhe.”

His own horse seemed to pick up on the man’s challenge and snorted, surging forwards to match the dappled stallion. Leon gave her her head and the two horses galloped onwards, throwing mud up behind their hooves, their manes flying in the wind. Leon wished that he had brought gloves - it was still bitterly cold.

They slowed as they approached the caravan, both horses breathing hard. The man clapped a hand on Leon’s shoulder. “A fine horse you’ve got there. Not many who can match this thrawn pony of mine.”

His horse - who was seventeen hands if he was an inch - tossed its head irritably and tried to snap at the bay again, who laid her ears back ill-temperedly. One of the lead riders in the group raised a hand in greeting.

The Orcadians were almost all horsed, although they’d brought two carts with them which were full of chests and canvas. They were also all dressed against the cold, wearing furs and cloaks which were - like the outrider’s - obviously designed with practicality in mind first. Most of the men worse leather armour or chainmail under their shirts, and some of the women as well, which sat oddly with the finely-wrought gold, silver and amber jewellery on display. The horses were of the same stock as his - broad-chested and strong-limbed, with flowing manes and tails. The group stared at him curiously as the pair approached, and he tried to pick out who was who.

He thought that he could work out the Princess Hildegard - a blonde-haired beauty riding a white mare, more finely dressed than any of the others and with a circlet of gold over her braids. Her brother must have been the gangly youth riding beside her, who had the look of a man who was only just out of his growth spurt. But where was the king? All of the nobles looked much the same; it could have been any one of them.

“Greetings, sire,” said the man who had raised his hand, and Leon suddenly realised that he was speaking to the outrider. “All well?”

“We’re almost at the border. This is Sir - Leon, was it? Camelot have given us an honour guard,” said the outrider, while Leon tried not to let his shock show on his face. _This_ was King Lot? He had been riding in the king’s company for near half an hour without realising who he was?

He could feel the colour rising in his cheeks and was suddenly glad of the excuse of the whirlwind ride over from the border. “Sire - I didn’t - I didn’t realise you were-“

The king grinned. “Aye, I know. Not as much decoration for our kings as yours, you know. But I like to meet the men on my own terms before they can start all that scraping and bowing.”

Leon saw some of the nobles stifle grins at his discomfort and flushed even deeper red. He felt thoroughly thrown off-guard. King Lot seemed to be making fun of Camelot’s customs of deference to their ruler even before he had reached the border.

The king noticed his humiliation. “Enough of that,” he said, sharply, to his nobles, and then turned back to Leon. “I mean no offence by it, sir. You are not at fault at all; I did nothing to hint at my title.”

Leon nodded, slightly stiffly, and let his horse fall in behind the king’s as they resumed their progress. King Lot gestured him forwards to ride alongside. “Let me introduce you,” he said, with an easy smile. “My daughter Hildegard,” the princess nodded, her smile genuine, “and my son Leif.” The boy dipped his head, a little shy.

“My lady, my lord. Camelot welcomes you,” said Leon, recovering his dignity a little now that he was on halfway familiar ground.

“My lords: Karl, Pellinor, Aela, and Americ,” King Lot said, pointing out each one. “And their families,” he added, gesturing vaguely at the small collection of riders behind. “You’ll meet them properly when we make camp tonight, I warrant. And my captain of guards, Sir Galahut.”

The knight riding to the king’s left nodded seriously and then returned to scanning the roadside. Clearly a man to take his job seriously. Leon was glad; it would make the journey much easier to know that his opposite number could be trusted.

“How long before we reach the city, do you think?” asked the princess, her voice low and melodic.

“It is perhaps four days’ ride from the border,” said Leon. With only two carts and the rest horsed, they would be able to make reasonably quick time. Better than he had hoped, provided no disasters occurred.

They made camp for the evening a few miles from the border, and Leon and Galahut had a long discussion about the intended route and the security precautions along the way. They agreed to set a double watch - one Camelot, one Orcadian - for the first two nights, in case of Essetiran attack. His first impression of Sir Galahut had been correct; the man was experienced and clearly extremely capable, and they quickly reached an accord after sizing up each others’ forces.

They started out the next day early. The group was merry as they travelled, with the King laughing and joking with his lords and their families and talking freely about the possible benefits of an alliance with Camelot. Leon and his knights took up positions around the riders, alternating with Galahut’s men and keeping a sharp eye out for bandits or soldiers of Essetir, but the journey was uneventful and they reached the next night’s camp in good time.

It was a relief to see the eaves of the forest; it marked the true edge of the borderlands. Beyond this, Cenred’s men wouldn’t dare mount an attack, and the hardest part of Leon’s task would be over. He had spent a large part of the day being questioned by King Lot and his nobles about Camelot, her lands, her borders, her villages and her armies. He answered as best he could, instinctively keeping back any information which could be used to an enemy’s advantage. After all, the treaty hadn’t been signed yet.

Another night passed without incident, and they started the second day’s travelling in good spirits. The forest was quiet, with the floor thickly carpeted with orange and gold leaves which were still falling around the group. Somewhere nearby, a blackbird flew up from its perch with a warning call at their approach.

Leon wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but he was suddenly and inexplicably on edge. None of the others seemed to have noticed; they were still laughing and joking as they rode, but somehow the forest had… changed. As if it were holding its breath. He realised abruptly that the birds were no longer singing.

He reined in his horse, scanning the road ahead with narrowed eyes. There was nothing there.

Then something moved.

“Ambush! To the king!” he shouted, and the group slammed to a halt, forming a defensive ring around the carts, the knights and soldiers looking to the left and right, trying to see where the attack was coming from.

They waited in tense silence for nearly half a minute. To his right, Sir Galahut’s face was grim.

Then a deer launched itself from the trees in front of them, its slender legs working frantically as it leapt over a fallen log and disappeared into the forest. Most of the men relaxed.

“There, it was nothing. Just a deer,” said one of the nobles, dismissively. Sir Galahut didn’t move his gaze, but motioned sharply down with his free hand.

A second later, an arrow streaked out of the trees and buried itself with a _thunk_ into the side of one of the carts. One of the horses screamed and reared, and suddenly everything was chaos as several more arrows rained down on them and the woods were filled with battle-cries. Warriors seemed to appear from behind every tree.

“Attack!” cried Leon, as his mare leapt forwards eagerly. Out of the corner or his eye he saw his men following. He sliced left and right as he came upon the first of the bandits, and another one fell under his horse’s hooves. There seemed to be hundreds of men, but he knew from experience that it always felt that way. In reality there were probably no more than thirty. Thirty was more than enough, though.

He struggled through, desperately, only half-aware of his men around him. At some point he was pulled down from the bay and had to fight on on foot. Their attackers seemed endless - one man after another, one blow after another, one block after another. And then, suddenly, there was an end. A horn sounded and the men were retreating back, heading into the forest. The few of their group still horsed followed the last few, cutting them down as they ran, and then headed back to the party.

Leon breathed hard, trying to get his bearings and work out who was still standing. The majority of King Lot’s party had retreated with the carts and were watching, wide-eyed. The king himself was still horsed, but had clearly been fighting, his broadsword out and bloody. All four of Leon’s knights were still standing, and he could see four out of five guardsmen - although one was clutching his arm, the material already stained dark red.

Leon spotted Sir Galahut and headed over to him.

“Your men?” he asked, scanning the battlefield. He saw his horse - mercifully unharmed - breathing hard and dancing on the spot. The man who’d sold her had claimed that she was battle-trained, and he was glad to see the truth of the horse-seller’s words. He made a mental note to think of a name for her.

“None lost. Some wounded. Hard fighting,” said the other knight. “You’ve lost one of yours, I think.”

He pointed to a body lying a few metres away - Tom, a Camelot guardsman, who had a spear sticking out of his chest. Leon nodded. “Hard fighting,” he agreed. “He died well.”

“Who were they?” asked Galahut. “Too many for simple bandits, no?”

“Cenred,” said Sir Connor, darkly, holding up a torn and frayed strip of cloth, on which the snake emblem of Essetir could faintly be seen. “Most of them are in disguise. This one must have been careless.”

“So far into Camelot lands,” said Sir Edric. “The king will hear of this.”

“You and your men fought well,” said King Lot, dismounting and wiping his bloody sword on a rag. “We thank you for your protection.”

“As did your men, sire,” said Leon, honestly. “I hope none are seriously wounded.”

“None worse than yourself,” said the king, gesturing at his arm. Leon looked down in surprise and saw that his chainmail was torn and that the padding beneath stained with blood. One of the blows must have hit home, he realised. He hadn’t even felt it until now.

“We’ll see to anything urgent here, but I think that most can wait until we make camp,” said the king, surveying the battlefield thoughtfully.

“Double watch tonight,” said Sir Galahut, a touch wryly.

 

*     *     *

 

The Orcadians were cheerful that evening as they set up camp, laughing and joking and bragging about their feats in the battle. Clearly they had enjoyed the fight. Leon’s troop were less buoyant; not only had they had lost one of their men - and Tom had been well liked - but they felt as if they had lost face, even if the King Lot didn’t see it that way. To be attacked by Cenred’s men so far into their own territory was humiliating. It didn’t matter that they had driven the attackers off. It should never have happened in the first place.

Leon was helping Lord Pellinore with his guy ropes when one of his daughters approached and laid a hand on his arm.

“You’re hurt, sir,” she said, looking at the damage to his chainmail. “You shouldn’t be helping my father before seeing to your wounds.”

Leon was surprised by her boldness; she couldn’t have been older than twenty, and yet she met his eyes with confidence. “It’s nothing,” he said, awkwardly, suddenly aware of how close she was standing, how pretty she was, and exactly what her father might say if he saw. “Just a scratch.”

“It might need sewing up,” she said. “Let me look at it.”

He backed away a step. “Later, perhaps. It’s not urgent.”

She cornered him after they had finished with the tents and were waiting for the evening meal to cook, armed with bandages and a needle and thread. Leon had little choice but to remove his armour and show her the wound, which was a gash on his upper arm, fairly shallow and not serious. She gasped.

“Jen! Jen, hot water!” she called, and a moment later her sister appeared with a bowl. She glanced nervously at Leon and then at her sister, and then turned to leave.

“No, Jennilyn, stay. I need your help,” said the woman, decisively.

“You really don’t have to-“ began Leon, but she had already seized his arm and was attacking the wound with a rag enthusiastically and it was all he could do not to wince. She wasn’t exactly being gentle.

He met the other woman’s eyes and saw the sympathy in them. _Sorry_ , she mouthed, as her sister carried on cleaning the injury, chattering all the while.

He shrugged in response, slightly helplessly. Lord Pellinore’s daughter was hardly Gaius, but the cut did need cleaning. It wasn’t worth arguing over, so he sat patiently, trying not to flinch, until she put the bowl down and went for the needle and thread.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, hastily, jumping up. “You’ve been very kind.”

She stared up at him, holding her sewing materials up in mild surprise. “But-“

“It doesn’t need stitching,” he said, apologetically. She opened her mouth to speak. “But I am much obliged for your concern.”

In her sister’s eyes he read amusement, and felt his cheeks heating up. He fled before she could say anything more, back to the safety of the Camelot tents. Sir Kay grinned at him as he approached.

“Having your wound washed, Sir Leon?” he said, innocently.

Leon gave him a flat look. “And what was I supposed to do?”

“Looks like that one’s got an eye for you,” Kay continued, refusing to take the hint. “I’d watch out if I were you.”

Leon resisted the temptation to give the younger knight a clip around the ears and went to rummage in his pack for something to bind the cut up with. Kay hadn’t even taken a scratch in the fight, and it was clear that his irrepressible spirits had been undamaged as well. He cast an eye over at where Pellinor’s daughters were sitting, now apparently deep in a serious conversation about something.

“She’s pretty, though,” he said, thoughtfully. “The younger one.”

“Kay…” said Leon, warningly, and he spread his hands out in a gesture of innocence.

“What? She is! Just making an observation!”

“She’s pretty and she’s the daughter of a lord. Don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Would I ever?”

Leon had to chuckle with him; he had managed affect an air of such affronted dignity, as if he had been mortally wounded by the accusation.

“Yes, you would,” he said, raising an eyebrow at him as he tied off the bandage and pushed his gambeson sleeve back over it. “But of course you know what King Uther would do to you if he even heard the slightest hint of you being _over-chivalrous_ with one of King Lot’s party…”

Kay sighed, his hand on his heart. “Oh, Leon, you ruin all of the romance.”

“…And I would think that even you would find it hard to woo a woman from the wrong side of a dungeon cell.”

The younger knight grinned. “You make a good point, captain.”

“Mmm.” Leon got up to move over to the campfire with the others. The Camelot group were becoming more friendly with their Orcadian counterparts, and now there was a mix of green and red uniforms at the fire, the soldiers sharing food and swapping stories of battles recent and past. He stayed long enough to check that they were all well and had had any injuries seen to, and then wandered off to join Sir Galahut over by the edge of the camp.

“It’s quiet,” commented the Orcadian, as he approached. “Do you think they’ll try again?”

Leon considered. “Not likely tonight. They’ll be licking their wounds. With any luck, they’ll be heading back to the border.”

“Why now, though?” said Galahut, frowning into the eaves of the forest. “We’d been travelling through Cenred’s kingdom for three days before we reached you. Why now, in Camelot?”

The same thought had been troubling Leon as well. They were well clear of the borderlands - Cenred’s men must have taken some pains to get there without being detected by patrols. Why bother, especially when Lot’s party had been relatively unprotected before meeting up with Leon and his men?

“I find it hard to believe that they thought that they would overcome us,” he admitted, and Galahut turned to look at him properly.

“You think the attack was a feint? Some kind of trick?”

Leon shrugged. “It’s possible. The only problem is that I don’t know _why_.”

“Nothing was taken. None of them got near the carts. If it was kidnap, they went about it remarkably badly.” Galahut stroked the hilt of his sword absently. “Perhaps they simply wanted the cover of the forest.”

“A lot of effort to gain a few seconds of surprise,” said Leon. “Or perhaps it was some kind of statement.”

“A challenge to your king, you mean?” Galahut considered. “That could be it. I know we wouldn’t tolerate such an incursion into our lands.”

“Nor will Camelot,” said Leon, firmly. “King Uther will retaliate as soon as he hears.”

A small smile suddenly appeared on Galahut’s face, and his expression cleared. “Ah. No. Of course. A statement to _us_. That Camelot is too weak to defend its own borders.”

Leon felt his heart sink. Of course that was it. Cenred was trying to prevent the treaty - not by killing Lot, but by making Camelot seem like an unreliable partner. That was why his men had been in disguise. His men probably had orders to kill all of the Camelot guards and a few Orcadians, leaving the king and his nobles shaken but unhurt. Of course they would doubt their own security and the negotiations would be soured before they had even begun.

And even though they had driven off Cenred’s men, the plot had partially worked. Camelot _had_ been embarrassed.

Sir Galahut studied his face for a moment. “You understand.”

“He’s trying to stop the treaty. Your king was never in danger.”

The older knight let out a short laugh. “No - or he wouldn’t have been, had they been able to recognise him. Which I doubt they would have. Fortunately we never had the chance to find that out.” He grew more serious, considering. “It’s a risky strategy. Now that we know it was King Cenred relations between Essetir and Orkney will be difficult to repair.” He glanced at Leon again. “Not that that concerns Camelot too much, I’d guess.”

“I’m more concerned about reaching the city safely,” said Leon, keeping carefully neutral. He liked Sir Galahut: the Orcadian captain clearly had a strong sense of duty, and he was a skilled fighter to go with it. But if the negotiations went badly, who knew what sides they’d both be on?

“And concerned about whether or not this has ruined Camelot’s chances of a treaty with us,” pressed Galahut, and then caught his expression. “Oh yes, I know what you’re thinking.” He smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t worry. King Lot isn’t one to appreciate tactics like Cenred’s, and he was impressed by your men today. And by you. If anything, Cenred is likely to find that his little plan has backfired on him.”

“You know him well?” said Leon, trying to ignore the warm glow of the praise in his chest.

“Aye. We were young men together. Fought alongside him in many a battle,” said Galahut, shrugging. “Saved his life more times than I can count, just as he’s saved mine. He’s a straight talker, and he likes action. Once he’s decided on something there’s not much can change his mind,” he said, wryly. “Hildegard gets that from him. I hope this Arthur of yours is up to the challenge.” He laughed his short laugh again. “They say he’s fought dragons, though, so perhaps he is.”

The mention of dragons caught Leon unprepared, and the sudden rush of panic almost made him stumble. He gripped his sword hilt and fought to control it, hoping that Sir Galahut wouldn’t notice. Fortunately the older man was still looking out into the forest as the last rays of sun filtered through the trees.

“Was that true, do you know? That Prince Arthur single-handedly killed a dragon?”

Leon gulped and struggled to keep his voice steady. “It’s true.” He gripped his sword hilt tighter.“I was there.”

“Not single-handed, really, if your captain of guards was there with you,” commented Galahut lightly, and then glanced over at him. “No offence meant. These stories always get exaggerated.”

“I… I didn’t see him kill it,” said Leon. “I was… the beast… I was unconscious,” he finished, going for the simplest version. He heard the tremor in his own voice and hated himself for it.

“They said a whole troop died fighting it,” said Galahut, apparently not noticing his struggle. “Clearly they missed you out.”

“I nearly died.”

“Doesn’t fit the story nearly as well to say ‘everyone but one man died and he had to spend two months in bed recovering’, does it?” said Galahut with a quiet laugh.

“Six months.”

Galahut whistled. “That’s some scars you must have there, Camelot.”

He nodded. It seemed the safest option, even now when the panic was subsiding and his heartbeat was returning to normal. Perhaps the Orcadian hadn’t even noticed.

“Don’t worry. I was the same, after we fought a kraken. Couldn’t go near the sea for months afterwards, and that’s not only because of the broken ribs,” said Sir Galahut. “And they miss me out of that story when they tell it, too.” He grinned. “Apart from my brother. Way he tells it, I got pulled out of the sea by a mermaid. And then married it.” Galahut chuckled to himself. “My wife loves that story.”

Clearly he had noticed after all. Leon was surprised by his response. He made it seem almost… normal. Not even Gaius had managed that. Galahut shook his head, then turned away, clapping Leon on the shoulder.

“Come on. We’ll let the watchmen do their job. I doubt they’ll attack again, if it was all supposed to be a stunt to show you up.”

He was right; the night was quiet and trouble-free, and King Lot was no less friendly with the Camelot guards the next morning than he had been the day before. They kept a sharp watch for the rest of the day’s travelling, but by the time they had reached the village of Greenfields they had seen nothing more threatening than a pigeon on the road, and even Leon had begun to relax. The inn in the village was large and comfortable, and the innkeeper was in his best clothes as he welcomed them inside to an excellent meal with free-flowing ale and a huge fire crackling in the hearth.

Leon didn’t drink; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sir Galahut refusing his ale as well. They were close to the city now, but that didn’t mean they could completely relax their guard. Not least because Leon’s own men were dangerously close to enjoying the night’s entertainments a little too much - Kay in particular. He had to give him a sharp look to stop the blonde knight from trying to get more familiar with one of the serving women. But he had no control over the Orcadians - and they clearly wanted to relax and make merry following many nights on the trail, sleeping rough.

One of them produced a fiddle from nowhere, and another somehow found a bodhrain. They moved the chairs and tables to the side and began trying to show some of the locals a true Orcadian party. King Lot was clearly entering into the spirit of things; he was alternating between roaring with laughter and berating his younger son for not having the courage to ask one of the girls to dance.

Sir Galahad caught Leon’s eye and moved over to him. “There’s no stopping Orcadians in the mood for celebrations,” he said, exasperated but with a hint of pride in his voice. He caught Leon’s expression. “Don’t look so anxious, Camelot. It’s a good thing. It means they trust you.”

“We’re not in Camelot yet,” said Leon, keeping his eye on as many of his own men as possible.

“If you’re worried about being attacked, keep in mind that most of our men fight better drunk than they do sober,” said Galahut, wryly.

“Can’t say the same about mine,” said Leon, as he watched Kay being semi-willingly dragged onto the floor by the same pretty blonde who had insisted on treating his sword cut. At least half of his men were still sober - three of the guards had orders to take shifts watching over the stables, and two of the knights were following his lead and steering clear of the ale as well.

“They’ll stop drinking fairly early anyway,” predicted Galahut. “No-one wants to travel on a hangover.”

Leon couldn’t help but smile. “True enough.”


	7. In which a damsel requires rescuing

“Kay’s hungover, isn’t he?” whispered Merlin, in Leon’s ear.

Leon glanced over at Arthur’s manservant, who had an entirely inappropriate grin on his face. They were standing in the second row of seats while the greeting ceremony went on. Sir Kay was technically part of the royal family, so he was on the dais. He looked distinctly green.

Beside Merlin, Gaius gave him a severe look.

“He is, isn’t he? He looks like he drank half a tavern last night,” Merlin persisted.

Kay should never have tried to match the Orcadians drink for drink, but King Lot had insisted that the honour of Camelot was at stake and well… well, it hadn’t been a pretty sight when Leon had had to go and wake him up in the stables the next morning. He almost felt sorry for the younger knight. _Almost_.

“Uther’s not impressed,” whispered Merlin. From along the row, Guinevere glared at him. “He’s going to get stable-cleaning duty for a month,” he continued, with glee. From the dais, Leon saw Prince Arthur glance over, a small frown between his brows. Merlin caught the look and shut up.

The speeches were mercifully short; the real diplomatic wrangling wouldn’t start until at least the next day. Then the tournament a week later. Leon was hoping to enter the joust again - perhaps he would do better this time than he had last, although Prince Arthur was back in the lists so it was unlikely that he was in with a shot at the top prize. He wondered how the Prince felt about the visit. After all, it might well end in a match for him, and even though the Princess Hildegard was beautiful - and certainly not dull - Arthur hadn’t exactly shown enthusiasm for the marriage yet.

Merlin elbowed him in the ribs and nodded at Kay, who was by now swaying on his feet. Leon fervently hoped that he wasn’t about to be sick. Or faint. Kay was Arthur’s second cousin - his mother was Alyse, who had been Uther’s late wife Igrayne’s cousin. It was a close enough relation for his behaviour to be an embarrassment, although judging by the slight amused arc of King Lot’s eyebrow as he glanced briefly at him, he found the whole thing hilarious. He had, after all, been the one to get Kay into this state.

King Uther finished his final speech and looked satisfied as the room erupted into applause. The Orcadian king looked pleased as well, which was surely a good omen for the start of his visit. Everyone filed out as the applause continued, and Lot gave King Uther a friendly slap on the back as they headed out of the room together, already in rapid conversation.

Leon was about to head back down to the barracks, when Prince Arthur caught up with him in the corridor.

“Sire?”

“My father’s sending Kay out to do a border patrol,” he said, without preamble. “To the Northwestern borders. As punishment.”

“Punishment?”

Arthur stifled a snort. “You saw what he was like at the ceremony today. Could barely stand up. He should know better.”

“He should, sire,” Leon agreed, hoping that he wasn’t about to be blamed for Kay’s condition. He had, after all, been his captain at the time, although he could hardly have contradicted King Lot’s request.

“Leon, I wouldn’t normally ask this of you, but… go with him. He needs someone sensible, and the borders aren’t safe at the moment. I don’t want him getting himself into trouble, especially not now. Father doesn’t think-“ He cut himself off, frowning. “Father doesn’t think what might happen to him, but the last thing we can afford at a time like this is knights going missing.”

Leon saw his tournament hopes fading; the journey to the borders was four days at least, and the joust began in a week. He swallowed his disappointment. “Of course, sire.”

“There’s no-one I trust more,” said Prince Arthur. “I know you won’t let me down, Leon. I won’t forget it.” He clapped Leon on the shoulder. “You leave tomorrow morning.” He glanced around at the empty corridor, and then lowered his voice. “Keep an eye out for Lady Morgana as well. There are rumours…” He trailed off, looking thoughtful. “Ask around at the borderland villages. Someone might have seen her.”

Leon nodded. “Sire.”

He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t disappointed. For a brief second, he thought that Arthur might be punishing him for allowing Kay to get in such a state. But no, Arthur wasn’t like that. If he thought someone deserved punishment, he would just say it. He was genuinely concerned that Kay would run into trouble out there. And so what if Leon would miss the tournament? There would be other tournaments, and this was an opportunity to prove himself worthy of the trust the prince was placing in him. What was a few days of border patrol compared to that?

Still, it would be a shame to miss it. He had crashed out of the last joust he’d taken part in in such a spectacular fashion that he had been unable to take part in any of the other events, and of course he hadn’t even been able to watch the last few tournaments thanks to being laid up in bed with burns and a broken leg. This was the first one he would’ve been able to take part in since the… since it had happened.

Since the dragon.

 

*     *     *

 

Sir Kay squinted up at the sky, peering between the leaves overhead. “Looks like rain soon,” he said, morosely. “And we’re out here in the middle of nowhere instead of in a nice warm tavern with a pretty serving girl draped across-“

Leon groaned. “I don’t want to hear it, Kay.” The younger knight’s endless stories of his conquests had rapidly worn thin - if even half of his boasts were genuine, there wasn’t a girl in the city who hadn’t fallen for his charms. Fortunately for the innocent maids of Camelot, Leon suspected that most of Kay’s tales were half fantasy, half exaggeration, and wholly untrue.

“I’m serious, Leon. Where’s the nearest village? It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

“Halverik. Just under two miles west of here.”

The blonde knight brightened. “Two miles? Not far, then. We could be there by dinnertime.”

“We’re not going to Halverik tonight.” Leon stalled his protest with a hand. “You know our orders.”

“Do our orders say anything about removing the stick lodged up your backside?” grumbled Kay good-naturedly. “I need a drink, Leon. We’ve been sleeping rough for five nights now.”

“Drinking,” said Leon archly, ignoring the jibe, “is what got you into this mess, if you remember correctly.”

Kay threw him a dirty look, and then grinned. “Worth it.” He yawned and stretched luxuriously, letting his horse slow its pace as he rolled his shoulders. “At least I got a night of fun out of it. Whereas _you_ get the dubious pleasure of border patrol without even the consolation of a night with Lord Pellinor’s pretty daughter. That’s where _being sensible_ gets you.”

“You didn’t have a night with Lord Pellinor’s daughter,” pointed out Leon.

“I _nearly_ did. She would’ve, you can tell.”

Leon rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“She was practically begging.”

“Naturally.”

“I almost had to fight her off.”

“Because you, the noble Sir Kay, would never allow a maiden to compromise her honour for your sake…”

“Exactly.”

“…Especially when it would cost you a week in the dungeons at least.”

Kay pulled a face. “More like a month. I mean, I only _looked_ at her and it’s ten days in the wilderness for me.”

“Much though you deserve it for the way you carried on, I believe that this is more to do with your behaviour at the ceremony.”

Kay groaned theatrically. “Unfair. How can I be punished for something I don’t even remember?”

Leon had to grin. “The fact that you don’t remember it is fairly telling.”

“All I know is that my head was about to burst. You know what the worst part is? That Orcadian king drank exactly the same, and he didn’t even -“

“Quiet.” Leon held up a hand, and Sir Kay paused, looking surprised. “Can’t you hear that?”

Over the normal sounds of the forest, there was a faint noise. It sounded like sobbing.

Kay frowned, scratching behind his ear. “Probably a fox or something.”

Leon shrugged. “Might as well check it out, though.”

They moved in the direction of the noise. It sounded more and more human the closer they got - a woman, crying, by the sound of it, but trying to do it quietly. Kay and Leon exchanged a glance as it got closer, and as one pushed their horses into a fast trot. Most probably it was nothing - some local girl, weeping over a broken heart or a broken promise.

It was not nothing.

They reached a clearing in the trees, a small glade beside a spring, carpeted with moss. Chained a large, dead tree trunk was a woman. Her shoulders were shaking and her head was bowed. Around the base of the tree, the ground was littered with bones. Human bones.

Leon and Kay had both stopped, frozen with horror, at the edge of the clearing. It was Kay who recovered first. He made a strangled sound, dismounted, and ran forwards towards the sobbing woman.

She heard the movement and raised her head to reveal tear-stained cheeks under her messy honey-gold hair.

“Camelot knights?” she gasped, her eyes wide. “Oh, gods, please, help me.” Her voice caught. “ _Help me_.”

Sir Kay was already struggling with the chains around her, trying to find a way to undo them. She was bound painfully tight, with the links pressing into her skin, and the bonds were padlocked shut at the base of the tree. Kay wrestled with the lock for a second before stepping back and running a hand through his hair. “No good,” he said. “We need tools for this.”

“Don’t leave!” begged the woman. She was clearly terrified; her skin was grey and her eyes red from crying. “Please, don’t go.”

“We’ll get you out. What happened?” asked Leon. “Who did this?”

She trembled. “I… don’t know. I don’t know! One minute I was walking along the road and the next… the next something hit me and then… then I woke up here and they said the beast was coming and… and-“

She sounded hysterical. From the bones around her feet, some of which looked disturbingly fresh, Leon didn’t blame her. Clearly she had been kidnapped as some kind of sacrifice. He stepped forwards and put a hand on her shoulder, hoping that it might reassure her. “Don’t worry. We’re here now. We won’t let any harm come to you. What’s your name?”

She sniffed. “Anna.”

“Anna. And you come from around here?”

“Not here. Alverston,” she said. “I was just on my way to visit my aunt when… when I- when they- and they said that they had to do it or the beast would come for _them_ , and they said it would come for me instead…”

She was becoming hysterical again, her voice rising in panic. Leon had heard rumours of some of the mountain villages, of how they were plagued by wild beasts or creatures of magic, which came at the full moon and slaughtered children and livestock. Of how they were kept at bay with gifts of animals laid out a safe distance from the village. Or darker stories, of how young girls were used to appease the beast - but he’d never imagined that they might be _true_.

“Kay,” he said, deliberately keeping his voice calm, “Go to the village. Find something to get these chains off. I’ll wait here.”

Kay nodded, glancing at the trembling woman, and then put a hand on Leon’s shoulder and drew him away to speak quietly out of earshot.

“If the villagers are the ones who did this?” Clearly, the same thoughts had crossed his mind. Leon glanced up at the sky; the sun was only an hour or so away from setting. If there was a beast, it likely came at night. That didn’t give them much time.

“We don’t have time to delay. We have to free her before sunset. Don’t let them stop you, if they try to interfere.”

“If there is a beast, it may go to the village after this,” warned Kay. “We can’t let that happen either.”

“I know.” Leon ran a hand through his hair. “Find out what you can about it. It’ll come here first. We’ll head for the village as soon as she’s free; then we can defend them.” He clasped Kay’s arm. “Good luck.”

Kay returned the grip. “You too.” He turned towards the woman and bowed. “My Lady.”

Leon watched him hurry off towards his browsing horse, jump into the saddle, and canter towards the village. It would take him perhaps half an hour to reach it, he calculated - which meant that he would get back as night was falling even if the villagers were willing to help. He hoped that Kay would reach them before whatever-it-was did.

The woman watched the blonde knight go with huge eyes, still red from crying. “Where’s he going?”

“To find something to get those chains off. Then we’ll take you back to Alverston,” said Leon. “He’ll return soon.”

She nodded, obviously trying to control herself, and managed a watery smile. “I’m lucky you came along,” she said, shakily. “What’s your name?”

“Sir Leon, my lady.”

A little hysterical giggle bubbled out of her. “I’m not a lady,” she said.

“Well, we knights only rescue ladies,” he said, seriously. “So you’ll have to just pretend for the time being.”

She rewarded him with another shaky smile. “Like in all the stories.”

“Exactly,” he agreed, glancing around the edge of the clearing and trying not to make it too obvious. The sun was already sinking lower in the sky. He hoped Kay didn’t run into any trouble.

“What are you doing out here? Why did you come?” The girl was nervous as well; her eyes kept darting around from tree to tree, wide and frightened.

“Kay and I are on patrol,” he explained, neglecting to mention exactly _why_ they’d been sent out into the border reaches. “We heard you crying in the woods.”

“Oh,” she said, and then sniffed again, trying to hide her fear. “I’ve never met a Camelot knight before.”

“Don’t patrols go to Alverston?”

“No, they do.” She was still trembling slightly but at least the tears had stopped now. “But they always scared me a little, before. They always seemed so… tough.” She shivered again.

“Are you cold?” he asked her.

“A little,” she admitted.

He retrieved the horse-blanket from Gwenfrith’s pack and wrapped it over her shoulders. “Sorry,” he said, “It smells like horse. But it should be warm.”

“Thank you,” she said, softly. “You’re kind. I’m sorry… sorry you have to save me. You probably don’t-“

She cut herself off with a little gasp as a blackbird flew up from a nearby tree with a sharp call of alarm. Her eyes were wide with fear. Based on the circumstances, Leon couldn’t blame her for being a little jumpy.

“Kay should be back soon,” he reassured her. “We’ll get you out of here as soon as he returns.” _And then we’ll worry about this beast_ , he thought to himself. It was, after all, their duty as knights to defend the people of the kingdom. Even if they were practicing human sacrifice - although there would be sharp words with the village leaders after all of this was over. And depending on how much self-control he had left, sharper blows.

Gwenfrith pricked up her ears and whinnied softly in alarm. Anna let out a tiny, frightened squeak at the unexpected noise. Leon frowned and scanned the clearing. Was it just Kay returning which was making his horse restless - or something worse?

The bay mare whinnied again, and pulled at the reins tying her to the tree. Her nostrils flared.

Leon felt his heart beginning to beat faster and realised that his hand was on his sword. Gwenfrith was highly-strung, but she didn’t act like this for no reason. She must have smelled something - something unfamiliar. Something which smelled dangerous.

“What is it?” whispered Anna, the terror in her voice clear.

“Shhh,” he replied. “Probably nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, and he knew it. He drew his sword, quiet and slow, as he scanned the trees around the clearing. Gwenfrith was still pulling at her reins, trying to back away from something on the other side of the glade. He thought he saw movement in the shadows there and tightened his grip on his sword.

A large, powerful animal stepped out into the clearing, treading almost silently. It looked almost like a wolf, but it was at least twice as large as the biggest wolf he’d ever seen. Its coat was charcoal-grey, blending to black on its muzzle and paws. Its snout was slender, its ears long and tapered, its limbs lithe and its fur sleek. It lifted its head - eyes glinting golden-orange in the last few rays of sunlight - and sniffed, showing a glimpse of curved white fangs at least as long as Leon’s hand.

Beside him, Anna was frozen with fear, barely daring to breathe.

Gwenfrith let out a short, shrill _neigh_ of fear, and the wolf-creature’s attention snapped towards her. Its gaze ranged between the girl and the horse. Then its eyes fixed on Leon.

It growled.

Perhaps it wasn’t used to the smell of man, or armour. Perhaps it wasn’t used to seeing prey unchained and free in its glade. Perhaps it understood what the sword in his hand meant.

It sprung forwards, silently, in one great leap which took it halfway across the clearing in a single fluid movement. Leon barely had time to react before it was on him, teeth snapping shut inches from his neck as he dodged aside with a hasty strike with his sword.

Anna screamed: a pure, animal cry of fear, and the horse screamed with her. Leon moved backwards swiftly as the beast jumped for him again, trying to draw it away, this time making sure to position his sword for a proper blow. The beast snarled as the blade connected with its shoulder, the thick fur almost yanking the hilt from his hand.

There was no blood on the blade as Leon pulled it free; either the animal’s fur had protected it, or its skin was tougher than a regular wolf’s. The blow must have just surprised it.

And angered it. The eyes fixed on Leon were burning golden, but the beast seemed to have realised that the sword in his hand was a weapon. It paced around him, snarling, its teeth shining in the reddish light of the sunset. He swung his sword at it, as a test swipe, and it moved away slightly - just out of range. So it understood how swords worked, although it didn’t seem to be particularly afraid of them. He hoped Kay would get there soon.

The beast lunged forwards, snapping, and he moved back, swinging the blade in front of him. If it hadn’t been a feint, he would probably have scored a hit on its muzzle; as it was, the animal had moved backwards as soon as he’d reacted.

The creature feinted again, its massive jaws gaping wide, and then before he had time to react it had barrelled forwards in a real attack, leaping straight for him. They went down in a tangle of man and beast. Leon felt its hot breath on his face as he kicked out. His foot connected with something solid and he heard the creature’s yelp.

He had lost his sword; he only had one arm free to seize his knife from his belt and stab upwards, savagely. The blade skated off along the beast’s chest, not even scratching its skin. He felt a jolt of fear. Its skin was impervious to weapons. A creature of magic.

It was several times the size of him, and far stronger. He struggled against its weight, fighting with every limb against it, pushing away the terrible jaws as they lunged for his neck. Distantly, he heard Anna scream again.

The beast heard too. It raised its head for a second, and Leon took the opportunity to rip himself free from under it and roll sideways. His sword was lying where he had dropped it, on the other side of the animal - but what good was that? The beast couldn’t be harmed by the blade anyway.

He felt naked without a weapon. Perhaps the wolf could be knocked out with a heavy enough blow? He risked a glance at the ground around him. No thick branches within reach - nothing but human bones.

That glance cost him; the beast lunged again, knocking him down easily. He felt a stab of pain somewhere in the region of his arm as all of the breath was punched out of his body, and then a sharp _clunk_ at the back of his skull.

There was a moment of blank, and then his vision began to return, confused and hazy. The wolf was not there. He raised his head, ignoring the dizziness, and spotted a dark shape moving towards a white one. Through the sharp whine in his ears, he thought he could make out screaming. He tried to raise himself onto his arms and failed.

 _Danger_ , his mind screamed at him. _You have to get up._

He tried again, and this time he gained his feet unsteadily. The wolf was padding slowly towards the tree trunk with the girl chained to it, while she screamed and tried frantically to wriggle free. Leon staggered forwards a few steps, desperately willing his vision to stop swaying and his balance to return. He felt sick. His arm hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

He launched himself at the wolf.

By some lucky stroke, he connected with its back legs, knocking it sideways off balance just as it was about to strike. They rolled together a few feet, kicking and struggling against one another. The wolf was the first to recover, twisting around to snap at him again. This time its teeth connected with the mail shirt covering his chest. Through the burst of pain, Leon noticed movement over by the trees to his left. Sir Kay leapt from his galloping horse and charged into the clearing towards them, his sword drawn.

Kay struck a savage blow at the beast’s side, making it drop Leon and turn, teeth bared. Leon saw Kay’s moment of shock as he realised that his attack hadn’t even marked the animal, but then the knight remembered himself and crouched into a defensive position.

Leon rolled over, the pain making his mind temporarily blank, and tried to stand, using a nearby tree stump to lever himself upwards. He had to focus to keep his feet, but he managed it.

Sir Kay was backing away, slowly, keeping his sword in front of the beast and trying to head for the trees so that he could keep them between him and it. His horse was panicking, dancing and bucking in a frenzy, unsure of where to go or even which direction to bolt. Kay noticed Leon staring at him.

“Here!” he shouted, and tossed something towards him.

Leon’s reactions weren’t fast enough; he saw whatever-it-was drop into the grass a few feet in front of him and scrambled to pick it up. At first, he couldn’t even see it through his hazy vision; then his fingers connected with cold metal.

A key.

Kay must have been persuasive indeed - that, or he had simply taken it. Leon staggered over to the tree-trunk and hung off it for a few seconds before the world stopped spinning enough for him to find the padlock and fit the key into it. It turned agonisingly stiffly. He glanced at the knight and the wolf as the lock _clicked_ and opened. Kay had just dodged another attack, but he had tripped on a branch and fallen backwards while the wolf advanced.

“Sir Leon!” screamed Anna, very close by. “Help me!”

He blinked and shook his head to clear it, then shook the padlock free of the chains. They fell away as she shoved and wriggled free, leaving one end in his hands. Kay needed help.

Leon needed a weapon.

“Quickly,” he said, his voice sounding slurred in his own ears. “Unwrap the chains.”

To her credit, she didn’t even question him. Together they unwound the heavy links from the tree as quickly as they could, before she collapsed against the base of the trunk, squeezing her eyes tight shut, her hands over her ears. Leon staggered forwards to where the wolf was advancing towards Kay, who was trying desperately to fend it off with his sword while scrabbling backwards.

The chain was heavy in his hands. Leon doubled it over and looped it around itself as he moved, praying that it would be strong enough. The wolf seized Kay’s sword in its jaws and ripped it from his hands, tossing it aside, and then took his leg in its teeth and began to drag him backwards. Leon was close enough to see the terror in the knight’s eyes.

He shouted something incoherent, stooped, and threw one of the bones from the ground at the wolf. It hit the animal on the back, with nowhere near enough force to do damage, but at least it got the animal’s attention. It growled and turned towards him, and then, as he’d hoped, it lunged forwards.

Not as he’d hoped, it neatly avoided the noose of chain he was holding out, and instead skidded past him and jumped again, knocking him sideways.

The chain was still in his hands. He shoved it towards the beast desperately as it lowered its head to finish him off, and then yanked.

He had only partly succeeded. Rather than around the beast’s neck as he’d hoped, the chain was caught in its jaws, looping over its back teeth and then over the back of its head. Still, it served a purpose; the animal’s head was jerked away and it whined as the chain bit into the sensitive flesh of its gums. It backed away a step, shaking its head so violently that the other ends of the chain were ripped from Leon’s hands.

Well, it had been a nice plan while it had lasted. Leon’s limbs were shaking now, as he tried to stand up; he only made it into a sort of kneeling crouch.

The wolf was trying to get rid of the chain; it was using a massive forepaw to claw at its mouth, shaking its head. The chain loosened a little, and for a second, Leon was sure that it would simply fall off. Then one of the beast’s jet-black claws hooked through a link and brought it down, over its lower jaw.

Leon shoved himself forwards without even thinking, grabbing desperately for the other ends of the chain.

He missed.

The beast snarled at his sudden movement, still struggling with the chain which was now looped around its neck and caught in one forepaw. It moved forwards, perhaps correctly guessing that this new attack had something to do with him. He was too dazed and too weak now to avoid it. All he could hope for was that perhaps Kay would find some way to save himself and the woman while it was distracted with finishing him off.

The beast stopped, suddenly, a foot away from him. He was confused until he saw that one of the loops of his noose was almost buried in the fur of its neck. The claw caught in the second one must be holding it fast from one end, and the other end had snagged on something. The wolf couldn’t move forwards without strangling itself.

It bared its teeth in confusion and tried lunging forwards again, choking off its own snarl. Then it tried moving sideways. It twisted its head in an attempt to chew itself free, but the chain was already too tightly wrapped around its neck, and it was hopping on three legs. It tried bringing its front leg down but that only made the loop around its neck tighter.

The wolf-beast began to panic. It thrashed and fought, lunging and snapping at Leon, at the chain, at nothing. It snarled and yelped and whined, kicking with its back legs, shaking its head, and eventually its struggles began to slow.

Leon managed to push himself to his feet, breathing hard, and caught Kay’s eye. The other knight was standing, a little shakily, with his hand on a nearby tree for support, watching the wolf warily. The other end of the chain had caught, Leon saw, on the stub of a branch on a fallen log. He prayed that it was strong enough to hold until the animal was dead.

The wolf whined again, panting raggedly. It had given up on its struggles for the moment and was standing still, staring balefully at him. There was blood on its tongue and it coughed, breath rasping in its throat. Its limbs were beginning to tremble.

Leon began to walk back towards the clearing, but his legs gave out from under him and he stumbled to his knees before he made more than a few steps. The wolf snarled and tried to lunge at him again, teeth bared and eyes bulging, then sank downwards as it choked its own breath away.

Kay managed to reach him, breathing hard and staring at the wolf. “It’s a real beast, isn’t it?” he said, his voice unsteady. “I thought I was dead for sure.” He offered Leon a hand. “You hurt?”

Leon exhaled hard as he let Kay help him up; he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath. “Don’t know yet,” he said, and then laughed disbelievingly at himself. Kay joined in; he could hear the note of hysteria in both of their voices.

The wolf whined again from the ground, scrabbling ineffectually as its chest heaved. The light was fading from its eyes and there was more blood around its muzzle. No wonder the villagers had feared it; even dying, it was a fearsome beast.

He glanced back towards the clearing. Anna was huddled at the base of the tree, curled up into a ball and shaking. Beside her, Gwenfrith was standing stock-still, breathing hard and sweating, her eyes wide and rolling. Kay’s horse was dancing on the spot nervously, ears flat against its head, snorting and tossing its mane. Kay had managed to get himself to the tree before slumping down beside it, his eyes slightly glassy with shock.

Leon’s hands had blood on them, he realised, and wondered who it belonged to. He sank down onto the grass, feeling little better than his horse. His blood was pumping loudly in his ears and his mind seemed to be working in slow motion, struggling to understand what had happened.

Kay took a shaky breath and tipped his head back against the tree, then opened his eyes to look over at Leon.

“You _are_ hurt,” he said, pointing at his arm.

Leon looked down; there was blood spattered on the chainmail of his arm and his chest. He moved experimentally and felt a twinge of pain from both. “Not badly,” he said, hoping that it was true. “What about you?”

“Got my leg,” admitted Kay, looking down at his feet. “Can still walk though.”

“We both got lucky, then,” said Leon.

“I could be inches from death and I’d feel lucky,” said Kay, wryly, glancing back at the wolf. “D’ya reckon it’s dead yet?”

“Give it another few minutes,” said Leon, mostly because he felt like he might need another few minutes before he was strong enough to stand. “Anna?”

She was still curled up by her tree, arms wrapped firmly around her head. She didn’t move at the sound of her name. She was clearly in shock, and Leon didn’t blame her. They had all been inches from death.

He got to his feet, slowly, using the tree trunk for support. He vaguely remembered his head connecting with something solid after the wolf had knocked him over at some point, which would explain the shakiness. He needed to get his chainmail off, and see how bad the wounds were. The one on his arm was bleeding a fair bit, judging by the gore on his hand. He’d need to bind it up before they moved on.

Another wave of dizziness nearly overcame him and he had to sit down, heavily, before he fell. He felt the back of his head with his fingertips. Yes, a spot there which was tender and swollen where he must have smashed it against some rock. He would be feeling the effects of that for a day or more, he knew from experience.

The bite on his arm wasn’t too bad, although it was bleeding freely. It looked as though the chainmail had saved him from the worst of it; the skin around the holes was already beginning to come up in bruises, but the toothmarks themselves weren’t too deep or too wide. It would do wrapped up in a bandage until they could get back to the village and wash it out properly. The one on his side was a little worse, but still just a flesh wound; again, the chainmail seemed to have blunted the impact of the teeth, although these holes were more like raked scratches where the teeth had ripped through his skin. Painful, but nothing life-threatening.

Kay’s leg was worse, because the wolf’s teeth had gone through his boot rather than the chainmail. The puncture marks were deep and bleeding voraciously; if there hadn’t been so much blood, Leon suspected that he would have been able to see bone. They bound it up and Leon helped Kay onto his horse, but the knight’s face was pale and he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to continue without seeing to the wound properly.

The woman was almost insensible with shock. By then the wolf was dead, blood trickling from its lolling mouth into the damp earth, but she kept glancing at it, eyes wide with fear. Leon managed to persuade her on to his horse and then attached the chains of the beast to the saddle. He could walk. His wounds were painful, but not serious enough that he wouldn’t be able to make it a few miles on them.

It wasn’t more than a few hundred metres before he had to stop to rest. He had been guiding his horse, but the waves of dizziness and nausea were just too much for him to continue. It took them more than two hours to make it down to the village, by which time his wounds had settled into a steady throb of agony and poor Kay was chalk-white, his hands limp on the reins. The rain had started soon after the sun had set, and before long they were all soaked through and shivering.

Anna suddenly sat up in the saddle, looking alarmed. “Where are we going? What road is this?” she said, sounding frightened.

He looked up at her. “Halverik. We’re almost there now.”

“I don’t want to go there,” she said, shying away like a nervous colt. “Not when they were the ones who…”

Leon couldn’t say he blamed her. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how he would react when he saw the people responsible for kidnapping and murdering innocent travellers. But Kay’s leg needed treatment. And besides, it was his duty to dispense the king’s justice.

“I understand,” he said. “But we must go down there. Kay needs a healer, and we have to find the ones who did this and make sure they don’t hurt anyone again.”

“I don’t want to come,” she said, immediately. “Go, if you like. I’ll stay here.”

Sir Kay was swaying alarmingly in the saddle. Much further and he would be unable to continue at all.

“You cannot stay alone out here,” Leon insisted. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I can’t go down there!” she said, her voice laced with panic. “They’ll… they’ll-“

“You’re safe with us,” he said, trying to be patient. In truth, his wounds were getting more painful by the minute, and he was tired and cold and soaked through. Being patient was a struggle. “We won’t let them hurt you. But we need shelter. Kay needs bandages.” He glanced across at the other knight, and Kay stared back at him, dully, without even attempting a smile. His hair was plastered across his face and he looked dazed. “Anna, we have no choice.”

She must have been as tired and cold and wet as he was; it was no more than a few seconds before she slumped in Gwenfrith’s saddle and nodded, her eyes downcast. “I just don’t want to go.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. If there were any other villages nearby…” he said, uselessly.

They were met by a group of men from the village, armed with torches and farm tools, who looked completely astounded to see them alive and even more so when they realised what the dark shape dragged behind his horse was. Leon strode forwards.

“Your beast is dead. We need food, water, shelter. Stabling for the horses. And your physician.”

The lead villager gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

One of the younger lads stepped forwards. “The inn,” he said, pointing. “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

Leon nodded his thanks and moved to loose the chains from Gwenfrith’s saddle; the poor animal was exhausted, her head drooping. Once they were at the inn, Leon had to help both Anna and Kay out of the saddle; she was on the point of collapse, and Kay’s leg trembled and gave way beneath him as he tried to put weight on it, grimacing in pain. The same boy who had pointed out the inn rushed forwards to help him. Another of the villagers moved towards Anna, but she shied away with a squeak.

“Touch her, and you’ll have me to answer to,” Leon swore, too exhausted to care about the impression he was making, and the man looked at him with eyes which were wide with fright. A small crowd had already gathered around the beast they had left in the middle of the road, exclaiming in wonder and casting uneasy glances towards them.

The inn wasn’t much; just two rooms, by the look of it. One with tables and chairs and the other with beds. None of them were occupied; hardly surprising, given the ‘hospitality’ the villagers had shown towards the last traveller passing through. Chaining people to trees to be eaten by wolves didn’t exactly win you custom. The innkeeper was busy trying to light a fire in the grate of the first room, while Kay limped to the nearest table and sat down heavily, his face taut with pain.

“I’ll never be able to use these boots again,” he said, his voice strained as he glanced at Leon and tried to smile. “They’ve filled up with blood.”

“Well, you got your wish,” said Leon, watching as Anna inched towards the fire, shooting nervous glances at the innkeeper. “Stay the night in Halverik.”

“This,” said Kay, easing the boot off with a grimace, “was not what I had in mind.” He rolled up his trouser leg and then started trying to peel off the blood-soaked sock, wincing.

Leon pulled off his chainmail stiffly, feeling the stab of pain as he stretched his side. The links would need repairing where the beast’s teeth had pierced them. He wondered what Camelot’s armourer would say to that damage when he saw… At least the rough bandage was holding; the wounds were messy but underneath the blood and bruising, they weren’t too serious. Considering how close they had all been to death, he had been exceptionally lucky. Even if his head felt like it was about to split open.

The door banged open again and the young lad from before hurried in, followed by an older woman who - judging by the ruffled hair and nightgown - had just been roused from sleep. She was carrying a leather bag, and she looked alarmed as she took in the blood smeared over Leon’s bare chest and arm.

“You must sit down, sir,” she said, fumbling to open her bag and dropping it instead. The boy picked it up, looking anxious. “I’ll stitch up your wounds.”

“Thank you, but no,” he said, backing away as she advanced on him. “They’re not as bad as they look. I can see to them myself. It’s Sir Kay who needs your attention.”

She blinked owlishly and then turned to Kay, who gave her a weak smile from his bench. “Leg,” he said, succinctly, and Leon saw the boy’s eyes go wide as he took in the mess of torn flesh and glints of bone that the wolf had made of Kay’s shin. Blood was dripping onto the floor along with rainwater. The healer set her jaw determinedly as she examined it.

Leon left her to it and focused instead on cleaning his own injuries and finding some fresh bandages in his pack which had managed to avoid getting soaked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that at least the innkeeper had found some warm blankets to give the girl as she sat, huddled and shivering, as close to the fire as she could get without burning herself. He would take her on to wherever-it-was she came from in the morning, he decided. Kay wouldn’t be in a fit state to go anywhere, but that didn’t mean that she had to stay in this place a second longer than was necessary. And in the meantime, he would find whoever was responsible and deliver them to the nearest law-house he could find. They could await Camelot justice in a cell rather than have the chance to run.

“Do you have a headman, in this village?” he asked, and the boy tore his eyes away from Kay’s leg to stare at him. “Who makes the decisions?”

“We have a council. Alderman Aelfric and Alderwoman Leanne lead it.”

“Fetch them here,” he said, firmly. “Now.”

“In the middle of the night? In the rain? But-“ began the boy, and then cut himself off at the look on Leon’s face. “Yes, sir.”

Leon glanced back at Sir Kay, who was grimacing, trying not to cry out as the healer stitched his leg. The knight was pale under his ash-blonde hair, sweat beading his brow and the injured leg trembling as he clenched his fists into his cloak. He was clearly in agony, but trying desperately not to show it.

Most of his belongings were soaked; the only reason the bandages weren’t was that they were right at the bottom of his saddlebag. He spread out his clothes - including his now-bloodstained gambeson and undershirt - near the fire, and then went to check on Anna. She flinched away from his touch on her shoulder.

“Anna. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, gently.

“I don’t want to stay here,” she whispered. “They way they look at me…”

“We’ll go in the morning. Back to your home. How far is it?”

“Alverston. Two days’ walk.”

Well, Sir Kay wouldn’t be fit to ride for a few days anyway. And Alverston was a big enough town that it had a gaol. Leon nodded. “We’ll start at dawn. It should take us a day of riding, at most.”

“I don’t have a horse.”

“We’ll use one from here. They owe you that much, at least.”

She nodded, looking down at her feet, and hugged her own knees. She seemed to be trying to make herself as small as possible. Leon felt like he somehow should be able to reassure her, but he had no idea how. She didn’t seem to want to have anything to do with him.

He was almost relieved when the boy from the village returned with two more people in tow. The alderman and -woman were both old, their faces creased with worry, and they both had expressions which told him that they knew exactly why he had summoned them.

“You knew of what was going on here, didn’t you?” he said, without bothering with the preliminaries. It was late, and he was tired and angry and sore and his head was throbbing. “You knew about the wolf.”

“Aye, sir,” said the woman, with a touch of defiance in her voice.

“You knew that people were being kidnapped and sacrificed to it?”

“Aye.”

“And you did nothing.”

Neither of them answered. They both had their eyes lowered to the floor, guiltily. The man darted a glance over at Anna and then looked down again.

Leon leaned on one of the tables, trying to ignore the pain. “Did you order it? Was it your idea?”

“It wasn’t our idea, sir,” said the man, hurriedly, but the woman nodded.

“It wasn’t our idea but we went through with it. The beast was destroying our village. We lost nearly all our livestock. Then it started taking people. Husbands, wives, sons, daughters. If we hadn’t done something it would have killed us all. We were desperate.”

“What you did was murder,” Leon said, simply.

“It was self-defence,” she countered. “We had to protect ourselves.”

“And the people you killed?”

“One death to save a village.”

He felt the anger rising. “It wasn’t one death, was it? How many did you kill? How often did you chain some innocent traveller up to be ripped apart to save yourselves?”

She looked away. “I don’t know.”

“ _How often_?” he insisted, his voice brittle with anger.

It was the boy who answered for them. “Once a month. Every full moon.”

Once a month… he felt sick. Twelve lives a year. Twelve murders a year, and no-one in the village had lifted a finger to stop it.

“You should have told the king,” he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort. “If you’d told the king this wouldn’t have happened.”

Neither of them answered him. Behind him, Kay grunted with pain. Leon felt his self-restraint - already not exactly at its strongest - beginning to fray. He suddenly wanted these two out of his sight.

“Tomorrow you will ride with me to Alverston, to await trial for the murders of the people you killed. Your case will be brought before the magistrates and they will judge what you have done. If you try to escape - now, or on the way - I will hunt you down and find you.” He exhaled, seeing the horror on the man’s face and the resignation on the woman’s.

They wouldn’t try to escape. They weren’t hardened criminals - just ordinary people who had acted out of desperation. He could see that the woman at least almost welcomed his sentence. She knew that she deserved retribution for what she’d been part of. Perhaps she was glad that it would come at the hands of Camelot justice, rather than the friends and relatives of those she had sent to their deaths.

He turned away from them, wearily. “Go. Say your goodbyes. We leave in the morning.”

They glanced at each other; perhaps they were surprised that he wasn’t keeping them under guard already. Perhaps he should have, but he didn’t believe that they would try to run. Where would they go, in the rain and the dark? How far would they get before he found them the next morning? There was no nearby village or hermitage they could reach, and tracking two untrained villagers after a rainfall would hardly be difficult. No, their best chance was to go quietly, and they knew it.

And if he was honest with himself, he didn’t think he had the patience to spend an entire night under the same roof as them. If they had been a chance of them escaping, he would have forced himself to bear it - but as it was, he was willing to believe that they were no risk. And the last remaining vestiges of his strength were rapidly fading. His head was pounding, his side throbbing, and every muscle felt like it ached. He forced himself outside to check that the horses had been properly stabled, but that was about the limit of his endurance, and he was almost stumbling with exhaustion by the time he got back into the inn and finally allowed himself to collapse into the nearest bed.

 


	8. In which Kay is less irritating than usual (but only slightly)

The journey to Alverston passed in awkward silence. Anna was furious at having to travel with the same people who had ordered - or at least allowed - her abduction, and Leon didn’t blame her for it. The village elders looked too frightened to speak, and he didn’t feel at all inclined to break the silence either, especially with the dull headache which persisted for the entire day. He had insisted that they rode - he wasn’t going to spend any time longer than necessary on transporting them to the nearest gaol - and the only sound was the dull _clop_ of the horses’ hooves on packed earth. Even at midday when he called a break to give the horses a rest and replenish their water supplies, they ate in sullen silence with no-one willing to make eye contact.

Still, progress was slower than he’d hoped, and they reached the town just after nightfall. It was no trouble finding some guards to direct them to the town gaol - and once he’d explained what had happened, the city watch were happy to provide a cell in their keep for the two village elders, in exchange for the promise that Leon would return to deal with them properly in the morning.

Anna cheered up markedly once she’d watched them being led away by guardsmen, and even managed the first smile he’d seen on her since they had met. She swore that she didn’t need escorting to her home, but by then it was late at night and Leon insisted. She was met at the door by a woman who must have been her mother and who was more than a little surprised to see her - especially since Anna threw herself at her as soon as she set eyes on her, her entire story tumbling out between tear-soaked sobs.

Leon excused himself as soon as was polite - after she had managed to actually understand what Anna was trying to say, her mother wouldn’t let him leave until he had been tearfully thanked at least seven times - and headed for the nearest inn, wishing that he wasn’t still officially on duty and could buy himself a stiff drink. Or three. Usually he didn’t go in for it much… but then the past few days had been more than a little exceptional, and his head still hurt from where he had thumped it against that rock.

He opted for a late dinner and an early night instead, praying that the proceedings at the gaol wouldn’t take too long in the morning.

He was out of luck; it was past noon by the time he finally left Alverston, and by then he knew that there was no way he could return to Halverik before nightfall. Not without killing his horse, anyway, and poor Gwenfrith had been through enough already. At least she was proving herself; all of the travelling of the past few days hadn’t been gentle on her, but she was maintaining her pace without fuss or complaint. He turned in early to give her a decent rest before pushing on in the morning, wondering if he was going to regret his decision to camp on the trail. The clouds had been darkening even before the sun began to set, and the air was heavy with promised rain. He hoped it would hold off for the night at least.

There, his luck held - at least for a few hours. The rain rolled in just after he broke camp at dawn, but to his dismay it had settled in quickly and promised to continue for a good deal longer. At least he didn’t have too far to go; he was now cold and soaked as well as aching, so he was glad to finally reach the stables a few hours later and be able to dismount and lead his horse into the dry.

There was no-one around so he took off her tack and rubbed her down himself, as she headed straight for the nearest hay-net eagerly and settled in. He could see Kay’s horse drowsing in a stall across the barn, fat and contented. Probably it hadn’t moved since they had arrived the first time.

Kay himself was sitting up in bed when Leon entered, looking bored. There was no-one else in the inn either, and his face brightened when he saw Leon.

“You’re back, then,” he said, shifting himself to sit up more. “You look soaked.”

“Just got in. It’s been raining all morning,” said Leon, moving to sit on the bed beside Kay’s. “How are you?”

Kay grimaced and looked around furtively. “That healer of theirs is a joke. She says it’s healing but it hurts worse than ever and it’s swollen up so badly you can’t even see the stitches any more.” Up close, Leon could see the beads of sweat on his forehead and the hectic flush in his cheeks. “I asked for wine to wash it but they say they don’t have any.”

He frowned. “Can you walk on it?”

Kay shook his head. “Not any more. I’d need a stick.”

“What about riding?”

The blonde knight shrugged. “How much energy does it take to sit on a horse? It won’t be fun, but yes.”

“We should return to Camelot once the rain stops. Gaius will know what to do.”

“Four days riding,” said Kay, and twitched an eyebrow. “Joy.”

“Better than staying here,” pointed out Leon.

“Oh, I know. I’ve only been here three days and already I can’t wait to be shot of it,” said Kay, wearily. “They’ve made us a gift, though.” He grinned and pointed towards the end of his bed. “Wolf pelt.”

Leon eyed the fur; even folded up, its size was impressive. “What’ve they done with the rest of it?”

“The head’s been mounted. They offered it to me but I told them to keep it. The rest of it… they burned. A waste of good dogmeat, if you ask me.” Kay pushed his hair away from his forehead, grimacing. “Ay, it’s hot in here.”

If anything, the inn was cold. The fire on the other side of the room hadn’t been stocked in a while and wasn’t doing much to take the chill from the air. Leon frowned again and was about to speak when Kay caught his look.

“I know. It’s not hot. It’s wound-fever. Doesn’t change the fact I’m sweating like a pig.”

“So they just leave you in here alone all day?”

“They bring food. Apart from that, mostly.”

“They have an odd definition of hospitality out here,” he muttered.

“At least they haven’t chained me to a post and left me for the wolves,” said Kay, with a wry smile. “And how’s your wounds, anyway?”

Leon shrugged. “Painful. Healing.” He wandered over to the fireplace to try to encourage the flames in their losing battle against the chill in the room. “Not as bad as yours, I imagine.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t had to endure the attentions of Madame Poultice.” Kay pulled a face, and then twisted to watch Leon poking at the fire with a stick. “What about the village elders? And the girl?”

“She’s safe with her family - who were very grateful, by the way - and they’re being held in the village gaol until the magistrates can hear their case. They claim it was self-defence,” said Leon. He nudged another log onto the fire and blew on it to try to persuade it to catch.

Kay snorted. “Some self-defence. I call it straight murder.”

Leon shrugged. “That’s for the judges to decide. They face Camelot justice.” Whatever his personal feelings on it, they didn’t matter. It was for the trial to determine whether or not they were deserving of punishment. That was what separated justice from mob rule; that was the Camelot he fought for. Would fight armies and wolf-beasts and dragons for. Would ride into hell and back again for.

The fire caught one of the sticks and flickered back into life. At least they wouldn’t freeze to death, although the reception from the villagers had certainly been cold enough.

“You’ve had no trouble from anyone here?” he asked.

“Apart from trying to kill me with the world’s worst bandaging? No. They haven’t been exactly friendly, but nothing serious. You’d think they’d be a bit more grateful, considering this,” said Kay, wryly, twitching at the wolf pelt. 

“We did arrive in the middle of the night and cart off both of their aldermen,” pointed out Leon. “And guilt can do strange things to people.”

“True.” Kay leaned forwards to try to catch some of the heat from the fire, wincing as he jogged his leg. “You heard about Sir Tristram?” He pulled a face. “He joined a _monastery_.”

“I can see why that might sound like your idea of hell.” Tristram would be an old man by now; he had been a senior commander of Uther’s during the first Purges, when men, women and children were hunted and slaughtered without mercy. Popular opinion was that by joining a holy community he hoped to atone for the sins he had committed. A more pragmatic view was that a knight who’d lost his sword arm - and his taste for battle - was of little use to the kingdom and entitled to a less violent form of retirement. “Some people enjoy a life of seclusion and contemplation.”

“Oh, gods, don’t tell me you’re one of _those_.” There was such horror in Kay’s voice that Leon had to laugh.

“I made that choice a long time ago. My brother’s the religious one in our family.”

“If I ever threaten to become a monk, Leon, I want you to put hemlock in my wine.”

“Duly noted. Somehow I doubt it will ever come to that.”

“Make it a good wine, though. Not like the vinegar they serve in the Sun. A nice Cornish red.”

Leon finished stocking up the fire, stood up, and rolled his eyes.

“Or one of those French ones… you know, Jaques of Normandy brought over a whole crate last tournament…” Kay was starting to mumble to himself, already half-asleep as the warmth from the fire began to spread over the room. “… And what kind of a tavern doesn’t even have _wine_ , anyway?” he muttered. “Only what you’d expect in the back of beyond…”

“Well, we’re leaving in the morning, anyway. Go to sleep. You need rest.”

“…But I didn’t even _touch_ her, so I don’t see why I had to come.”

“Goodnight, Kay.”

“She was the one flirting with _me_.”

_“Goodnight_ , Kay. ”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, she was a very attractive woman, but…”

Leon stopped listening.

 

*     *     *

 

They reached the edge of the forest late in the afternoon and set up camp quickly, before the rain hit. Leon had to help Kay off his horse, but the blonde knight insisted on helping make the fire even though he could barely walk. He tended the pot while Leon set up a shelter by lashing branches together. Fortunately the rain that night was light, and the makeshift roof over their heads kept most of it off.

“By rights, you should have the fur,” said Kay, after they had scraped the last of their meal out of the pot and were preparing to settle in for the night. Leon had made him take the wolf-pelt; it was big enough to wrap fully around him, with more to spare. “You were the one who actually killed the thing.”

“We both killed it. I’d have been dead if you hadn’t come when you did,” said Leon. “Besides, you need to keep warm.”

Kay sighed. “I’m _already_ warm.”

“And you know exactly why. It’s the same reason you should keep the pelt.”

“If I ruin it with bloodstains, I’m blaming you.” Kay shifted slightly and winced. “Gods, I wish I’d never let that woman touch my leg. I’d’ve been better off treating myself.”

“Not all healers are as good as Gaius.”

“You can say that again. I can’t even blame it on magic from the beast, since yours are healing fine.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they still hurt.”

Kay grinned. “It does. The invincible Sir Leon does feel pain after all.”

Leon leaned back against the side of their shelter, carefully, trying to avoid putting pressure on the puncture wounds on his chest. “Yes he does.”

“You can have the fur if you want. I’m too hot already.”

Leon ignored him. “Gaius will see you right as soon as we return to Camelot.”

“Let’s hope I make it that far,” said Kay, lightly. He was only half-joking; something in his voice made Leon look at him more closely. The knight’s face was pale in the firelight, his eyes glassy with fatigue, and his features strained. Clearly, his wound was troubling him more than he was letting on.

“Will you be fit to travel tomorrow?” asked Leon, concerned.

Kay’s attempt at a smile was weak. “Do I have a choice? Can hardly stay out here.”

“I could ride for help.”

“Ride where? The closest village is a day away in any direction. And unless they have a decent healer, it’ll make no difference.” Kay shook his head. “No, I’ll be fit to ride. After a rest.”

Stubbornness clearly ran in the family; Kay was only a second cousin to Arthur, but Leon recognised that pig-headed obstinacy well. He would swear that he could keep going up to the point of collapse - and beyond, probably.

He was right, though. The nearest village was still the one they had just come from; the next closest was a day and a half away, and if they continued on the road to Camelot they wouldn’t reach a place likely to have a healer until they were within a day’s ride of the city anyway. The best they could do would be to head onwards and tend the wound as best they could.

He stuck a foot out of the cloak to nudge one of the logs closer to the centre of the fire. Now that the drama was over, the episode with the villagers was troubling him. They had been people of Camelot and they had been pushed into doing terrible things through fear. The kingdom should be protecting them better. It should never have come to the point where normal people were even considering kidnapping and murdering innocent women. Why hadn’t they come to the king? Uther would have listened.

Perhaps they hadn’t believed that he would. Perhaps they hadn’t believed that there was anything Camelot could have done. That they had been wrong didn’t matter; their lack of confidence in their rulers was worrying. It was always difficult with the border villages, Leon supposed: most of them had never even seen King Uther or the prince. They probably didn’t believe that they would care about the people of a tiny borderland village. After all, patrolling knights visited perhaps twice a year - maybe less.

Prince Arthur would understand the problem, he thought. Once they explained what had happened, he would realise the danger of having subjects so far removed from the crown that they began to follow their own laws rather than the laws of the realm.

The rain was intensifying; Leon could hear it drumming on the roof of their shelter. He wrapped himself tighter in his cloak and hoped that the leaves and branches he’d banked up against the sides would be enough to keep them dry. The fire had died down, leaving the logs glowing red and black in the gathering dusk, and too much rain coming through the roof would almost certainly quench it completely. He glanced at Sir Kay, who had cocooned himself in the wolf pelt and apparently already gone to sleep. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the rain, at least. Or the possibility of bandits, this far out into the borderlands.

Not that that was particularly reassuring - Kay never seemed to be bothered by anything. Other than the location of the nearest tavern, or the nearest pretty young woman. Irritating as he could be about both, Leon was worried about him. He had probably seen as many - if not more - men die of their wounds days later as he had seen fall in battle, and despite Kay’s bravado he knew that the blonde knight’s condition was not improving.

His own wounds were painful, but the fever hadn’t taken hold and he knew that they weren’t life-threatening. He had taken worse in the line of duty, many times over. Only a few more scars to add to his collection: the knife wound on his hip from Greenfields, the cut on his arm which had festered and almost killed him after Badon, the arrow wound in his leg from Caerfael, the burns on his arms from the battle with the dragon. No more nor less than most other knights his age, although there were precious few of those left now.

He remembered Sir Tristan, his own mentor, who couldn’t have been much older than he was now when he had taken Leon and his brother on as squires. He had shown the young boys his scars as marks of pride, telling the story behind each one - this one a battle, this one protecting his king from an assassin’s dagger, this one during a tournament against the legendary Black Knight of Caradoc. Each scar, he told them, was a mark of honour, reminding you what you had fought for and the price you willingly paid.

The price paid for Camelot. For its people. A price he would willingly pay, many times over.

He had forgotten, he realised. Eight months ago he had forgotten himself. He had forgotten what he fought for, because eight months ago he had almost strangled himself with guilt and fear, and he had forgotten why he had ridden out to face the dragon and why the other knights had ridden alongside him. He had seen it only as _they died_ and _I lived_ when it really should have been _we all gave ourselves for the people of Camelot._

And perhaps that was something which he could forgive himself for.

 

*     *     *

 

“Sir Leon.” Gaius, as usual, sounded sternly disapproving. “Sir Kay. What have you done to yourselves this time?”

“Can’t this just be a pleasant social call, Gaius?” said Kay, his smile strained, hopping on one leg as Leon helped him over to a bench. Gaius raised an eyebrow.

“No.”

Kay grinned. “Perceptive as always.”

“Usually, people making pleasant social calls don’t have blood all over them,” observed the physician. “Your leg?”

“My leg,” confirmed Kay.

“What happened to it?”

“Nearly bitten off by a giant magical wolf. What else?”

Gaius really had perfected the art of looking unfazed by these things, Leon thought. His eyebrow might have been pinned to his forehead. “‘What else’ of course,” he echoed ironically, unwinding the bandages around Kay’s leg. “A giant magical wolf.”

“Are you serious?” asked Merlin, looking up from where he had been grinding something into a powder at the back of Gaius’ workshop.

“When am I ever not?” asked Kay, then had to grip the table as Gaius peeled the last layer of bandages off and peered at the wound, frowning.

“There was a wolf,” confirmed Leon. “Terrorising one of the border villages. They said it only came at full moon. It was twice the size of a man. Couldn’t be pierced by normal weapons.”

“So what happened?” Merlin abandoned his grinding to go and look at Kay’s leg, which was looking particularly grotesque with the flesh around the stitches swollen and discoloured. Gaius poked it gently with a finger, and Kay grunted in pain and gripped the table tighter.

“We killed it,” said Leon, simply.

Merlin looked up sharply. “How? It couldn’t be harmed by normal weapons, you said.”

“Got a chain around its neck. It choked itself to death.”

Was it his imagination, or did the boy seem somehow disappointed? “Oh.”

“The villagers gave us the pelt,” said Leon, pulling it off from around Kay’s shoulders to show him. Merlin took it, his eyes wide as he took in the size, and stroked it with slight wonder.

“It looks huge,” he said, with awe in his voice.

“Sharp teeth, too,” said Kay, then yelped as Gaius did something to his leg with some kind of pointed instrument. “Can you warn me before you do things like that?”

“If you warn me before you’re planning on getting your leg half ripped off by a warewulf,” said Gaius, archly.

“A warewulf? Is that what’s it’s called?” said Merlin, eagerly, and then hurried off to start sorting through a pile of leather-bound books.

“This has been badly treated,” said Gaius, returning his attention to Kay’s leg and frowning. “Very badly.”

Kay looked up in alarm at the tone of his voice. “You can fix it, right? Gaius? You can make it better?”

Gaius looked troubled.

Kay glanced at Leon, something like panic in his eyes. “Gaius. I won’t… lose my leg, will I?”

There was a long moment of silence before Gaius shook his head, as if to clear it. “No. No, I hope not. But I won’t lie to you, Sir Kay. There is a risk.”

Kay swallowed, his earlier spirit vanished. From the table, Merlin looked up excitedly. “I’ve found it! Here,” he said, and pointed as Leon moved over to look. “Does that look like it?”

The creature on the page wasn’t quite the same as the one they’d seen, but it was close. Its snout was shorter and the whole thing was stocky where the beast had been slender, but the glowing orange eyes and the savage claws were easy enough to distinguish.

“That’s it,” said Leon, leaning on the table with one hand over the spot the bandage was wrapped under his chainmail. “What does it say?”

Merlin scanned the text quickly. “Cursed… twice the size of a normal wolf, unnatural strength… appears at full moon… cannot be cut by steel… shows a preference for young women and children… is repelled by mistletoe…” He frowned, reading quickly. “It sounds like in the ancient times they used to keep it away from villages by sacrificing people at the full moon. They would tie them to a post away from the houses and-”

“- And leave them to the beast. Not just the ancient times,” said Leon, his face grim. “That’s how we found this one.”

“They were sacrificing _humans_?” gaped the boy. Gaius looked up from where he had been working on Kay’s leg; the blonde knight had his eyes screwed shut and his knuckles were white from gripping the table.

“Kidnapping travellers and leaving them out in the woods, yes,” said Leon. “We came across a women tied to a tree just before the wolf did. That’s where we got the chain from,” he added.

Merlin’s mouth was hanging open. “But that’s terrible!”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Leon. “Although lucky that we had a chain. The thing very nearly killed all of us.”

“The wolf, and that damned village healer,” gasped Kay, eyes still shut. Gaius sat back triumphantly.

“That’s the last of those stitches out,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “Brace yourself, Sir Kay, the next part will be painful.”

Kay’s eyes opened in horror. “What?” he yelped. “The _next_ part?”

“What happened to the woman?” asked Merlin. “Did you take her back to the village?”

“I took her to Alverston,” said Leon. “She didn’t want to be anywhere near the village. Understandably.”

“I don’t blame her,” said Merlin, his eyes wide. “Does Arthur know?”

“We only just returned. I hav-“ Leon cut himself off as Kay suddenly pitched sideways and he had to dive to catch him around the shoulders before he toppled off the bench. Gaius frowned from where he had been pouring some kind of liquid over the wound.

“Perhaps we should move him,” he said, sounding mildly irritated that Kay had had the nerve to pass out in the middle of a medical procedure. Under Leon’s grip, the knight stirred and groaned softly. His eyes flickered open.

“What happened?”

“You fainted,” said Gaius, disapprovingly. Kay groaned again. “Move him over there,” he added, nodding at the low bed in the corner of the room. Merlin moved over to help and the two of them managed to get the knight over to the cot. He braced himself against the wall, the muscles of his jawline clenched hard, and gave Gaius a baleful look as the physician approached, cloth and liquid in hand.

“Perhaps I should fetch Arthur here,” suggested Merlin. “I’m sure he’d like to know.”

“I was going to find him after Kay’s leg had been seen to,” said Leon.

“He won’t be able to walk for at least a week,” warned Gaius. “And cleaning out all of this muck is going to take a while.”

“I’ll bring him here,” said Merlin, heading for the door. “I think he’s supposed to be with the princess. He’ll probably be glad of the excuse,” he added, sharing a significant look with Gaius and then darting out of the door before Leon could ask.

He eased himself onto the bench while Gaius attacked Kay’s leg with the cloth, ignoring the blonde knight’s muffled half-screams as he poured liquid onto the swollen flesh. Leon’s own wounds were far from healed, and he ached all over from the fight and the hard riding of the past four days. He wondered whether or not to tell Gaius about his own injuries; the physician seemed to have more than enough on his plate with trying to treat Kay.

“So the talks are going well then?” said Kay, though gritted teeth. He was clearly trying to distract himself; Gaius answered him absently, still focusing on his work.

“Seem to be. King Lot is apparently impressed with the prince, at any rate.”

“And his daughter?” Not that it mattered; nobles married for alliances, not for personal happiness. Everyone knew that. If Lot and Uther decided that it was necessary, Arthur and Hildegard would marry regardless of how they felt about it.

“She knows what she wants,” said Gaius, moving to pick up some herb or other from his shelves. He started grinding it up at his table, frowning at it. “No-one is sure yet if she wants Arthur, although the king seems to be throwing them together at every opportunity. But you’ll see for yourselves soon enough.” He reached for another vial of something and tipped it into the bowl, then resumed grinding. “They say she enjoyed the tournament.”

“The prince was champion?”

“Yes, although it was a near thing in the sword ring. The Orcadian captain of guards gave him a fair few knocks.” Gaius sighed. “Which, of course, I had to repair. I was almost glad that you two weren’t there to tear yourselves apart as usual, but it seems that you’ve found a way to do it anyway.”

“I can’t go too long without getting a new scar. You’d miss me, Gaius,” said Kay, managing a smile.

The door opened and Prince Arthur stepped in, frowning and closely followed by Merlin. His expression cleared when he spotted Leon and Kay, but only slightly.

“Gaius,” he said, nodding. “Sorry to interrupt. I heard Kay was injured.”

“Nothing too serious, sire,” said Kay, trying and failing to sound cheerfully unconcerned. “Just a bite.”

“’Just a bite,’” muttered Gaius, darkly.

Arthur moved closer and then recoiled as he saw the wound. “What on _earth_ gave you that?”

“It was a warewulf, sire,” said Leon, rising and trying not to wince. “A creature of magic. Attacking one of the border villages.”

“Look at the pelt,” said Merlin, picking it up to show the prince. “It must have been _huge_.”

“You killed it?” asked Arthur, glancing across at Kay.

“Yes, sire. Sir Leon strangled it with a chain. Our swords were useless against it.”

“Only after you had jumped in just as it was about to kill me,” said Leon. He didn’t want them to think that he had killed the thing single-handed, after all. “All it had to do was bite down and I’d’ve been dead.”

“You’re injured?” said Merlin, sounding surprised. Everyone turned to stare at him.

He put a hand self-consciously to his chest. “Not badly.”

“Sir Leon,” scolded Gaius. “When were you planning to tell me?”

“Sire, that isn’t all,” he said, turning to Prince Arthur. “The villagers - they were making sacrifices to the beast. _Human_ sacrifices.”

Arthur’s concern turned to alarm. “What?”

“They had kidnapped a woman and chained her to a tree outside the village, for the wolf. To keep it away from their homes.”

“That’s murder,” said Arthur, horrified.

“It wasn’t the first. There were more bones around the tree and they weren’t fresh,” said Leon grimly. “The village elders wouldn’t tell us how many people they’d killed in the same way.”

“And what happened to the woman?”

“We took her to Alverston. She had family there. She was badly shaken,” he said. “The village elders are there as well, under guard. We thought they should be brought to trial.”

“Here in Camelot,” decided Arthur. “We must make an example.” He glanced at Kay as Gaius returned to his patient with a poultice. Poor Kay was trying desperately not to scream as he wrapped it around his leg. The prince took Leon’s arm.

“I’m glad I sent you,” he said, his voice low. “Thank you for protecting him.”

“I’m not sure I did anything. I would have died without him,” Leon said, honestly. Arthur smiled.

“I think perhaps he would say the same about you. All the same, I won’t forget it.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“Have Gaius see to your wounds as well, Leon.”

“I will, sire.”

The prince dropped his voice even lower. “Any word of Morgana?”

“None, sire. We asked the villagers but they claimed not to recognise the description.”

“And were they telling the truth?”

“After what happened, I think they were too scared to lie.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They claimed that the beast only took young women, but they said they had never given it anyone highborn. They said they would have remembered the accent as well.”

Arthur frowned. “That’s a mercy, I suppose. Although it puts us no closer to finding her than before.”

Leon didn’t answer; the prince was lost in his own thoughts, most likely musing on their failure to find his ward-sister so far. Troop after troop had been sent on scouting missions, ranging farther and farther into risky territory, but the only faint flickers of hope had turned out to be false leads - or worse, outright traps. By now the bandits preying on the edge of the borders had learned that all they had to do was mention a dark-haired young woman to make Camelot knights venture into situations they never would do normally. Now they were having to send out troops to take care of bandits wearing the Camelot red-and-gold and attacking travellers… It was no wonder the border villagers were beginning to mistrust anyone seemingly connected to the knights.

It was a mess, to be sure, and an embarrassment to the king and the prince. King Uther was still determined that his ward would be found, but Leon could sense that some of the knights were beginning to lose faith. They resented being sent on what they saw as pointlessly dangerous missions into enemy territory, and that was mirrored by Cenred’s increasing hostility towards patrols found in the borderlands…

Leon’s attention snapped back to the present as Sir Kay let out a muffled scream, his leg jerking involuntarily as Gaius struggled to wrap bandages around it. Prince Arthur winced in sympathy at his cousin’s pain, knowing full well that Gaius’ treatments often hurt as much as the wounds themselves. He glanced down again at the wolf pelt, frowning as he lifted it to feel the weight.

“It was a creature of magic, you said?” he said, thoughtfully. “What was it doing there? Some kind of curse?”

Merlin began scanning the page of his open book again, his brow furrowed in concentration. Leon shrugged. “We didn’t ask, sire. They wouldn’t tell us how long it had been attacking the village for; my guess is that it must have been at least half a year.”

“It doesn’t say anything about a curse,” said Merlin, absently, still reading. “It says that… hm,” he said, trailing off mid-sentence.

“It says what?” asked Leon, once it became clear he wasn’t going to elaborate.

Merlin glanced at him and Kay, and then to Gaius. He seemed reluctant to speak.

“Merlin?” The prince’s voice was sharp.

The boy’s throat worked as he gulped. “It says… it says that the creature itself is cursed. It spends most of its time as a human, and turns at full moon into the beast.”

“That thing was a _man_?” said Leon, disbelieving.

“Not really. Not any more. Even in the human form it’s… wild.” Merlin looked up from the book, his eyes wide. “It was probably one of the villagers. Someone local.”

Arthur frowned. “So… one of their own? And they were sacrificing people to it. That’s barbaric.”

“They were frightened,” said Merlin. He glanced between Leon and Kay again, and then at the wolf pelt lying on the bench. “I don’t blame them for that.”

“We must protect them better next time,” vowed Arthur. “We must stop there _being_ a next time. If we’d known about it we could have ended it much earlier.” He shook his head, still frowning as he moved towards the door. “I will speak with my father.”

It took Leon another half-hour to extricate himself from Gaius’ rooms, mostly because the physician cornered him when he tried to leave and insisted on examining his wounds, and then on re-cleaning them and re-bandaging them and generally fussing until Leon felt thoroughly mollycoddled. He bolted as soon as he could, leaving poor Kay grey-faced and limp in the corner, and Merlin still up to his ears in books.

It was late; outside the rain was still heavy. He ignored the hollow feeling in his stomach - he hadn’t eaten since morning, and he would have missed the evening meal in the castle by now - and headed to the stables instead. Usually the stablehands would take care of the horses, but it never did any harm to check, especially after a long ride, and he felt like Gwenfrith deserved it after how hard he had pushed her in the past few days.

The stable block was warm, the air rich with the smell of hay and horses and leather, and a welcome contrast to the rain outside. Gwenfrith was placidly pulling at a haynet in a stall by the door, her tack neatly stowed nearby, with one of the new young squires rubbing her down with a handful of hay. She whickered when she caught his scent, flicking an ear at him. Kay’s horse was in the stall beside her, tail swishing lazily and drowsing, coat already shining.

The boy looked up as Leon approached, starting guiltily. He almost tripped over in his haste to move out of the way and Leon was just in time to grab him by the collar and yank him away from Gwenfrith’s hoof as she lashed out irritably.

“Careful there,” he warned, as the unfortunate boy turned bright red and stammered his thanks mixed up with an apology. “She’s a trained warhorse, this one. Not as even-tempered as your average palfrey.” He picked up a handful of straw from the floor and began rubbing her down with long, sweeping strokes. She turned to nuzzle his shoulder briefly before going back to the haynet. “She’s sweet-natured when she wants to be.”

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir,” muttered the boy, still crimson up to his ears. He was young: only thirteen or fourteen, by the looks of him. Camelot had acquired a fresh crop of squires from Lot’s party: boys beginning their six-year training to become a knight, which started off for all of them as stable-work and cleaning armour. This one didn’t look like much: tall for his age, and scrawny, with a messy mop of dark hair and a nervous expression as he edged forwards to begin rubbing down Gwenfrith’s other flank. Still, it was early days yet: all of the squires had a long way to go before they could be called knights. “You’re one of Lot’s boys, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

“Um. Yes. Lord Pellinor’s son. They call me Pip, sir.”

Leon nodded, although inwardly he was raising his eyebrows. Surely ‘Pip’ was a nickname; there was no way Lord Pellinor would actually name his son that. He scratched Gwenfrith’s ear absently and she huffed contentedly.

“She’s a beautiful horse, sir,” the boy ventured, shyly.

Leon smiled. “She is. Not as powerful as a destrier, but you can’t match her for speed. Very different from the kind of horses you have up North, I’d say.” Gwenfrith nuzzled at him again, snuffling. He took the carrot he had brought from Gaius’ out and offered it to her.

The boy nodded. “She’s not so stocky.”

“You have your own horse?”

He made a face. “A pony.”

Leon fought down a smile; he remembered his own wild indignation when his brother Gethin had been given his first horse and he had had to put up with another three years of the fat, lazy pony all of his siblings had learned to ride on. “You’ll get a palfrey soon enough. When you start basic training.” He gestured down the other end of the stable block. “The horses for the squires are over there. I’d start bribing them now, if I were you,” he added, giving him the other end of the carrot. He patted Gwenfrith’s neck affectionately. “Can’t ride well if your horse hates you.”

“T-thank you,” stammered the boy, staring after him wide-eyed. “Um. Sir.”

He pulled his cloak closer around him as he headed out into the rain. It felt strange to be in a position where the squires looked up to him like that. Since the dragon there were so few knights left that he was one of the most senior by default: most of those older than him were the veteran commanders who no longer took part in active service. That meant that he automatically commanded the respect of the younger knights and squires, simply by virtue of being alive - whereas before he had been just another knight.

Perhaps his reputation was preceding him, as well. The scars had mostly faded, but he knew that he was probably still talked of as the only knight who had taken part in the final battle and lived, and it was hardly surprising if the squires had heard of it already. It made him uncomfortable to think that they might be seeing him as some sort of hero before they had even met him. Or perhaps he was imagining things, and he was simply noticing the respect that the junior knights always gave to their elders more since he had started thinking about it. Hardly something to worry about, in either case.

He shook his wet hair out of his eyes, and headed towards the tavern to find some food.


	9. In which winter has come

“Leon!” The cries greeted him almost as soon as he stepped through the door of the Rising Sun, the warmth and the noise a welcome contrast to the rain outside. Benifred waved a cheerful tankard at him from their usual table and he couldn’t help but smile, even though Olyvar’s slap on the shoulder was more painful than it should have been as they moved up to make space.

“Heard you got back. You eaten?” he said, not bothering to wait for an answer before he waved over Marged for another bowl. “What’ve you done with Kay, then? Or is he drunk and snoring in some ditch in Gawant?”

Leon helped himself to stew from the pot in the centre of the table amid the laughter. The Sun always did well out of Camelot’s knights, who were constantly hungry and constantly looking for somewhere to unwind after guard duty. “He’s with Gaius,” he said, between mouthfuls.

“Ha! Finally snapped, did you? Don’t blame you,” joked Olyvar, to more laughter. “Let that be a lesson to you, lads,” he waved his spoon at some of the younger knights, “don’t brag about your sordid conquests when Leon’s around. He won’t stand for it.”

“Gods, the boy is careless. That must be the fourth time this year.” Bors shook his head. “What happened?”

“Found a beast terrorising one of the border villages,” said Leon. “Nearly killed us both. His leg took a nasty mauling but Gaius thinks he can save it.”

“Now there’s a story needs telling,” said Benifred, sitting down with both hands full of drinks and starting to distribute them around the table, and so Leon had to go through the entire tale - almost twice, by the time they had finished asking questions and insisting on seeing his bandages and judging how big the jaws must have been to leave scars like that.

“The girl,” said Olyvar, grinning. “The girl’s the best part. You actually rescued a damsel in distress, Leon, do you realise that? There’s got to be some kind of award for that.”

“She doesn’t count unless she’s a princess,” said Benifred, who had managed to drink a tankard and a half during the story and certainly didn’t hold his drink as well as Olyvar did. “S’not the same.”

“What? Who says that?” said Olyvar, affronted. “Doesn’t matter if she’s a princess or not, she still got rescued, didn’t she? You agree with me, right, Bors?”

Sir Bors - one of the few knights over thirty-five still in active service - raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard that the damsel had to be of royal blood,” he said, straight-faced, and then rolled his eyes as Olyvar punched his arm triumphantly.

“There you go. Still counts,” he said, grinning. “Leon, you are a hero. They will sing songs of you for generations to come.”

“Alright, alright,” said Leon, rolling his eyes. “What’s the news from here? What of the tournament?”

“The tournament! You missed the tournament! Of course! I thought the joust was remarkably easy this year,” said Benifred.

“He’s boasting,” put in Sir Thomas, in a low voice. “Because he reached the semi-final.”

Benifred failed to hide his grin. “Knocked out by Prince Arthur himself!” he said, proudly. “Was there ever a bout of unconsciousness so sweet?”

“You’re an idiot,” said Sir Bors, wearily.

“The prince took the honours in the joust and the sword on foot,” said Olyvar. “And tournament champion in the melee, of course, although it was a close thing in the end. Spear on foot was Oswold,” he nodded to the knight, sitting further down the table, who raised his tankard in reply, “And Bors took mounted archery, although one of theirs had the honours in the longbow.”

“Archery hasn’t been the same since we lost Ulfswyn,” said Bors mournfully.

“Crossbow?” asked Leon.

“One of theirs as well. Don’t remember his name,” said Olyvar, shrugging. “Wouldn’t do for Camelot to take _all_ of the prizes, eh? No diplomacy in that.”

“Since when was winning a tournament about diplomacy?” complained Benifred. “Not our fault if we’re better than them.”

“They’re leaving soon, anyway, so what does it matter?” Thomas pointed out, cutting off Bors who looked about to say something sharp in reply, and there was a murmur of general agreement around the table.

“And no Northern Princess for Arthur,” said Benifred. “Maybe he should have put more effort into rescuing her from a warewulf.”

“Just because there hasn’t been an announcement yet doesn’t mean they won’t,” said Bors.

“What’s she like, Leon? You escorted them from the borders, right?” asked Olyvar. “A good match for Arthur?”

“I didn’t speak to her much,” he admitted. “She seemed very… graceful? Poised?”

Benifred rolled his eyes. “Never ask Leon to give an opinion on someone. He doesn’t have a bad thing to say about anyone. Even if it’s an enemy, his insults are compliments.”

“True. But I still think _you’re_ an idiot, Benifred,” said Leon, to general laughter.

“She’s very beautiful,” ventured Thomas. “And I agree with Leon, she seems very regal. Confident.”

“She’s got a sharp tongue on her, though,” said Alwyn, from further down the table, who had been listening in on the conversation. “I overheard the prince telling her about when the king nearly married Lady Catrina.”

There was a chorus of groans from around the table; all of the knights hated that story, Leon most of all.

“She said that she would have just killed the woman rather than let her own father make such a mistake.”

“I heard that a woman once tried to seduce King Lot, and the princess appeared in her room at night with a dagger and made her swear to leave the kingdom and never return,” chipped in Benifred.

“And _I_ heard that you shouldn’t get your stories from tavern drunks,” said Bors.

Benifred grinned good-naturedly. “It’s true! I heard it from Sir Oswold, and he heard it from one of the stableboys, who had overheard one of Lot’s guards talking about it-“

“… Who had heard it straight from the hind end of Lot’s own horse,” finished Olyvar. “Beni, I don’t know why you even think this is worth repeating.”

Benifred shrugged. “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

“If only Geoffrey of Monmouth were here. He’d set you straight on that,” said Bors.

Olyvar’s eyes creased with amusement. “At great and tedious length. If he didn’t manage to make you fall asleep first.”

“I agree with Beni,” said Thomas, chuckling. “If I ever have any adventures, I’d rather he wrote them up than Monmouth. That man could make a dragon sound dull.”

“He _has_ ,” said Benifred, exultantly. “Haven’t you read his account of last year?”

Olyvar got up to get another round of drinks, briefly putting a steadying hand on Leon’s shoulder as he did so. He appreciated it; Olyvar had been a friend long enough to notice the effect that the change in conversation had had on him.

“Leon, did you ever read it?” persisted Benifred. “You were there, you can-“

“I haven’t read it,” Leon said, deliberately keeping his voice calm. He saw Bors pick up his tone, a look of understanding briefly flickering across his features.

“You wouldn’t know a decent story if it hit you in the face, Beni,” he said, a little too loudly. “Just as well Geoffrey will never have to write about you anyway.”

Benifred puffed himself up indignantly, and the others settled in to tease him even further. Leon exchanged a brief, grateful glance with Bors. It was getting better, but the strength of his reaction still took him by surprise whenever the subject came up unexpectedly. He had trained himself not to think of it, but that didn’t help when someone else said the words. And all the training in the world didn’t stop the nightmares, although they were less frequent now. He wondered how long it would take before he could hear the subject mentioned without feeling that odd flop of his heart in his chest.

If he ever did.

 

*     *     *

 

The weeks passed as winter tightened its grip on the land. The cold weather did Leon’s injuries no favours, but at least they were healing well. Kay had spent almost two weeks in Gaius’ rooms before he was well enough to begin walking again, much to his own frustration - and by the sounds of it, Gaius and Merlin’s as well, since they were the ones who had to put up with him. Now every morning dawned with the crispness of frost, and the puffs of air from the horses’ mouths rose from the practice field along with the wooden clatter of practice swords. As a concession to his injury, Leon had been assigned to training the new squires: eight young boys from Lot’s court, left behind to be trained when the rest of the royal party had returned to their own kingdom.

The royal visit had been a success even though it hadn’t resulted in marriage. Leon had seen the lifting in tension of Prince Arthur’s shoulders when the procession left the city walls and knew that he was glad of that. But even if no engagement had been made, the allegiance had been made and the treaty signed, with both parties satisfied. Leon was glad. Orkney was a land of strong warriors, and he would have regretted having to fight against their captain of guards in battle.

And now they had a fresh crop of young squires, all of them over-eager and under-skilled - as every squire started out. Training them required every ounce of patience Leon possessed. He now had a much greater respect for Sir Tristan and the other knights who had helped in his training - and a greater appreciation of why other knights complained so often about their young squires down at the Rising Sun. Everything he told them seemed to go in one ear and out the other - if it even went in one ear in the first place. They would fidget and yawn when he tried to instruct them on theory, as if they already knew everything… and then completely fail to use any of it when he finally put practice swords in their hands.

Today was horsemanship, which was usually easier. At least most of them knew the basics of how to ride. Except Gavant, who Leon had caught actually punching his horse when it had done something to frustrate him. It was probably a blessing that the horse had revenged itself before Leon had had time to lose his temper. And it wasn’t a lesson which Gavant was likely to forget in a hurry, once he had recovered from the concussion…

He watched from Gwenfrith’s back while Griflet reined in a tight ring, one-handed, and made a grab for the pennant on Samor’s saddle, missing by a hair’s breadth as Samor’s horse hopped forwards just out of reach. Leon had learned swiftly that the boys’ attention spans left something to be desired. Any lesson lasting longer than half an hour was likely to be ignored, so he had switched to short demonstrations and practices, mixed with the games he remembered playing with his brothers and the other young squires when he had been young. This one had become a rapid favourite with his squires: each boy had six coloured strips of cloth tied to his saddle, and the one with the most cloths at the end of the game was the winner. The trick was to get close enough to your target to grab his flag, without leaving yourself vulnerable.

The squires were improving already. Leon saw with satisfaction that some of them were actually trying to use the techniques which they had been practicing earlier in the morning, albeit with varying levels of success. They were at least doing a little better than the first time they had played the game, when only one of them had even managed to get a single flag which wasn’t his own - and even that was more of an accident than through skill. Once they had been at it for a while, he would join in, with his own - slightly longer - red pennants flying from his saddle. Perhaps today was the day when one of them would manage to catch him, although he doubted it.

Gwenfrith sighed, the puffs of air rising from her nostrils as she nodded her head restlessly. His horse didn’t enjoy training. It was always difficult to keep her from galloping straight into the middle of the action, but this time he gave in to her and nudged her onto the field. He saw several of the boys’ heads come up and a grim determination settle over their features as they spotted him. Catching one of the red pennants, he knew, was a point of honour which they were all desperate to secure for themselves. It was also the source of considerable amusement to some of his friends among the knights, who had begun laying bets as to which of the squires would be the first.

By the end of the game, he had thirteen cotton pennants of seven different colours, and all six of his own still intact. Still, he was pleased. In the first game he had deliberately been holding himself back, but now he actually had to work to get a pennant from each of the boys - and he had almost missed Pip’s pennant altogether. Samor had won the game - eighteen pennants overall, and two of them his own. Leon knew exactly how he’d done it, as well; he had singled out whoever was going after Leon’s own pennant, and then he had snatched flags off them while they were distracted. It was a good tactic, although perhaps not the most chivalrous.

The squires tumbled into the courtyard, still out of breath and laughing as they recounted their earlier triumphs and close misses. It was late afternoon, the sun was already setting, and all he could think of was finding some warm water to wash the flecks of mud from his face as he herded his squires into the stables. Caring for their knight’s horse was one of the very first jobs a squire would be trusted with, and these ones were still far too eager to just unsaddle their animals and leave them with a haynet while they went begging in the kitchens.

Prince Arthur and two of his other knights clattered into the stableyard a few minutes later, flushed with the cold and the excitement of a day’s hunting. Leon spotted several plump game birds hanging from his manservant’s saddle, alongside a brace of hares and a fair-sized doe, its head hanging limp. The prince swung himself out of the saddle and swept his gaze over the squires, who were - under Leon’s exacting eye - rubbing down their animals with straw.

“Leon,” he said, nodding cheerfully. “Working the youngsters hard, I see.”

“Of course, sire,” said Leon. “Good hunting?”

Prince Arthur’s smile was broad; he was in an excellent mood. “Very good. Benifred took a hare in full flight. Right though the eye.”

Benifred, leading his horse to its stall, ducked his head modestly. “Lucky shot,” he said, unable to keep the note of pride out of his voice.

“And Merlin almost managed to catch a pigeon, didn’t you, Merlin?” Arthur clapped his manservant on the shoulder as he came to take the prince’s horse. “But it fought back. Savage animals, pigeons.”

The boy rolled his eyes, with just the slightest hint of a flush creeping up the back of his neck. “Maybe some of us weren’t born to murder poor defenceless animals,” he retorted.

Arthur raised his eyebrows at Leon and Benifred. “And maybe you’d like to only eat carrots and oats for the rest of your life, Merlin,” he said. “But you’re supposed to look after the horses, not steal their food.” Behind him, Sir Ulfric snorted, and Arthur grinned at his own joke.

“Ha, ha. I’d like to remind you that if it weren’t for me your horses wouldn’t even _get_ fed. And then where would you be? I think it’d be a lot fairer if you had to run down that deer on foot,” said Merlin. The prince rolled his eyes. Leon had never quite understood why it was that the prince tolerated the amount of backchat he got from his servant, but he actually seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps it was refreshing to have someone around who could almost always be relied upon to disagree with everything he said. Usually for Arthur the reverse was true.

Some of the squires were watching the exchange with wide-eyed interest, clearly curious about how the servant was able to get away with being so cheeky towards his master. Leon threw the nearest a warning glance and he flushed deep red and returned to his work. Training squires, he reflected, was a lot like training horses. They learned well - but only when they were under constant supervision. The second they thought you weren’t watching, they would invariably do the least sensible thing possible.

It was far too late by the time he managed to actually finish for the day and return to his room, and by then he was exhausted enough to consider just crawling into bed without even taking off his chainmail. His side was hurting again, even though it had healed well and was beginning to scar over. Still, he felt strangely good. It was a healthy exhaustion, the kind which came from long days of training in the fresh air, and even the aches in his muscles were somehow satisfying. He realised with surprise that it had been weeks since he’d last had a nightmare.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hesitant knock on the door. He looked up from where he had been unlacing his overtunic. Who would be visiting at this hour?

“Come in?”

The door opened. The first thing Leon saw was a young woman: slender, tall, and with exactly the same sea-green eyes and blonde hair as him.

“Leon!” the woman cried, and a second later was buried in his arms. Over her shoulder - and through his own shock - Leon saw his other visitors: a small, mousy-haired woman, looking nervous and holding tightly onto the hands of two young girls - and behind her Olyvar, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Olwen?” he managed, returning her hug before gently pushing her back to look at her at arm’s length. “And Maureen - the twins… what are you _doing_ here?”

Too late he saw the tears swimming in his sister’s eyes. He pulled her back into a hug before she could start crying and met Maureen’s gaze, still standing in the doorway.

“May we come in?” she asked, her Irish accent soft and barely audible.

“Of course,” he said, trying awkwardly to extricate himself from his sister’s grip and giving it up as a lost cause. “You’re welcome. Come in. Sit down. You must have travelled a long way.”

She nodded. “We have. And a hard road. Thank you. Girls, this is your Uncle Leon. Go and say hello.”

Leon met Olyvar’s eyes as the two little girls dutifully stepped forwards and curtseyed, glancing up at him shyly from underneath their hair. His friend shrugged and then left, clearly relieved to have fulfilled his duty and not have to intrude further. Leon recognised the faint lines of puzzlement on his brow and knew that he would be interrogated later.

“Olwen, you’re going to have to let go of me if you’re going to tell me what happened,” he said, gently. “Why don’t you sit down?”

She sniffed and then raised her chin; despite the tears still threatening, her voice was steady. “It’s good to see you, brother.”

He allowed himself a smile. “And you too, Oll. And you, Maureen. And my nieces. But what are you all doing here, of all places? Is something wrong?”

“I think perhaps that you should sit down, as well,” said his sister-in-law. “We bring grave news from Carmelide.”

Her words sent a cold shiver down Leon’s spine. Carmelide hadn’t been his home for many years now, but it was still where he’d grown up - and it was where his family were. “Gethin - is Gethin-?”

“Carmelide has been invaded, Leon,” said Olwen, wearily. “Gethin and the others - all the others - have been thrown into the dungeons by Rience.”

Leon sat down very suddenly. “What? The others? Who? Our parents? Geoff? Are they alright? What have they done to them?”

“Everyone. Our parents, Gethin, Tegan, Owain. All of the nobles. Everyone loyal to King Uther. And my husband… my husband is dead.”

“Lord Pelleas? No.” _It’s not possible_. _None of it._ “How? How could our parents let this happen? What happened? Why did you say Rience?”

It was Maureen who spoke. “An Irish usurper. He murdered my father for his throne in Ireland and he murdered King Mark for the throne of Cornwall. He means to add Camelot to his collection, I warrant.”

“I’ve heard of him.” Rience was said to be a giant of a man, hard and unrelenting, as ambitious as he was brutal. King Eoin’s sons had been forced into hiding; King Mark’s heirs had all mysteriously disappeared, and no-one knew whether Rience had murdered them too, or if they had escaped and were still running.

And now he had seized Leon’s father’s earldom. Dear as it was to Leon, he knew that its value was not great, especially not to a king such as Rience who already had Ireland and Cornwall to claim as his own. No, Carmelide’s worth was of a different nature. It was a stronghold ideally placed to mount an invasion of Camelot.

“He came so suddenly - we had no warning. There was a battle but they caught us by surprise and… Father tried to draw back to the castle but there were too many of them to defend against. They say Rience threatened to torch the town and he surrendered himself rather than let that happen,” said Olwen, her voice shaking.

Leon fought to keep his own voice even. “How did you escape?”

“It was Maureen. She - she knew what was happening. She made Margared in the kitchens take Aoife, and Jon in the stables take Elenor. Then she made the guards in the dungeons lock us in cells. We changed our clothes to look like prisoners, hid our valuables under the tunics.”

“Let me get this straight. You locked yourselves _in_ to the dungeons?”

“When Rience and his men got in, they marched everyone important down to the dungeons to lock them in. They needed more cells. They didn’t care about the prisoners already there and they assumed we had nothing on us. Rience ordered them to throw us out of the castle.”

Leon blinked. “My brother has no idea how lucky he is to be married to you, Maureen.”

She raised her chin briefly and flashed a rare smile. “Oh, he knows.”

“By the time they realised that we were missing, we had collected the girls and were already out of the town and on our way here,” said Olwen.

“Have you told the king? What happened? Have you told Uther?”

“Not yet.”

“We must go now.” Leon stood up and took his sister’s hands, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “I know you’re tired from your journey, and you can stay as long as you need to - but first we must tell the king.”


	10. In which s*** gets real

The hour was already late, so Leon had to be patient while a servant was sent to rouse the king. He watched his sister pace the hall of the audience chamber nervously while they waited. Both she and his brother’s wife looked travel-stained and exhausted; they had made the journey from the castle to Camelot in four days - and half of it on foot - so they must have been travelling almost non-stop. His little nieces were both nearly asleep on their feet, still managing to keep a tight grip on their mother’s hands. He hadn’t seen them since they were babes in arms; now they must be almost five years old. Far too young to be dragged around the countryside ahead of a rampaging army.

The door opened and Olwen whirled to face a slightly tousled-looking Prince Arthur, who had obviously also just been woken up. He blinked at them all, looking from Leon to his sister with a slightly bemused expression on his face.

“Leon? What’s going on?”

Leon stepped forwards. “This is my sister, sire. Olwen. And my sister-in-law, Maureen, and her daughters. They bring news from Carmelide.”

“A message from Lord Leodegrance?” Arthur rubbed a hand through his hair. “At this hour?”

“Not exactly from him, sire-“ began Olwen, and then stopped as the door opened again and the king strode into the room.

“They said there was an urgent message,” he said, taking in the room with a single sweeping glance and then stopping short. “What’s this?”

“Sire,” said Olwen, making a short curtsey. “It’s Carmelide. It’s been invaded.”

Uther’s eyes narrowed. “ _Invaded_?”

“The Irish king, Rience. He stormed the city with a huge army. They came out of nowhere. My father has been captured, along with the rest of my family and all of the nobles. We were some of the few to escape.”

“An army? How many men?”

“Four, maybe five thousand. Maybe more.”

Leon saw the flicker of alarm cross King Uther’s face and he exchanged a glance with the prince. There was no way that a man with an army of that size would be content with such a tiny prize as Carmelide. And capturing Leon’s childhood home meant that he was perfectly positioned to threaten another castle: Camelot herself.

“This cannot be ignored,” the king muttered, grimly. “We must answer, and swiftly. Before he has the chance to regroup.”

“I will go, father,” said Prince Arthur. “I’ll raise the army and leave as soon as possible.”

“Why were we not warned of this sooner?” demanded Uther, ignoring his son. “Why didn’t Leodegrance send messengers?”

“He did, sire, as soon as we had word of Rience’s army. And again, after the first battle.” Olwen lowered her eyes. “None of them made it past Rience. He… when he marched up to the city…” She was trembling again, but she raised her chin. “He had taken them all alive. He killed them in front of the walls of the city. In front of us all.”

Prince Arthur’s eyes narrowed in anger. Leon shared his feelings; he imagined the despair which must have gripped the defenders’ hearts when they had realised that none of the messengers had made it through. That no help was coming. And to do it in such a needlessly cruel way - murdering unarmed prisoners…

King Uther’s face was grim and he turned away, hunching his shoulders over a map of the kingdom which had been left spread out over one of the tables. Leon caught sight of the neatly-inked letters spelling _Carmelide_ by the king’s left hand, nestled among the forests and valleys of his homelands. He swallowed down the burning anger which was kindling in his chest at the thought of his father a prisoner in the castle he had one ruled from.

“Father, let me go,” insisted Prince Arthur, his voice hard. “I’m ready.” He glanced at Leon, the determination clear in his eyes. “I’ll hit him before he has the chance to turn towards Camelot. I’ll retake the castle. I’ll bring the traitor Rience to justice. _Camelot_ justice.”

Still the king hesitated. Perhaps he was struggling to send his son into danger - or perhaps he was struggling not to be the one riding at the head of Camelot’s armies himself. Leon had ridden out on campaign with King Uther before. He was a ruthless warlord, his attacks swift and brutal, and he always scorned the idea of holding himself back while his lesser lords led the charge. But the Prince was now of an age where he could begin leading his own men - not just in battle, but in war.

Uther turned to his son, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and studied his face. Arthur met his eyes with steadfast conviction. There was a moment of silence, and then the king nodded.

“You will lead the army. Leave as soon as possible.” He looked about to say more, and then glanced at Leon and his family. “You must be weary. We will speak further tomorrow, when the war council is convened.”

Olwen nodded and dropped a curtsey, with Maureen and the girls following her out of the room. Leon excused himself as well, guessing that the king wanted to speak further to his son alone.

“I’ll find you rooms,” he said, once the door had closed. “And we can send down for something from the kitchens. You must be hungry.”

“That would be welcome,” said Maureen softly. “Thank you.”

Leon was wondering where the most likely place to find a willing servant was at this time of night - there was always _someone_ around, it was just a question of working out _where_ \- when they turned a corner and almost ran straight into Guinevere.

“Gwen!” said Olwen, delightedly, and a moment later the two women were in each others’ arms.

“They said that you were here,” said Guinevere, standing back and taking in Maureen and the children in a quick glance. “I almost didn’t believe them. What on earth are you doing arriving so late at night?”

Leon didn’t bother asking who ‘they’ were. Camelot’s staff had ways and means of knowing things that mere mortals had no hope of understanding. Most likely one of the guards on watch at the gate had told one of the kitchen boys, who had told a scullery maid, who had told a cook, who had told a lady’s maid who had told Guinevere, who must have been working late for some reason or another…

“We had to come. Gwen, Carmelide… Carmelide’s been invaded.”

Guinevere’s hand flew to her mouth. “But that terrible! Your mother… Are your family - are any of them hurt? Are they safe? What happened?”

Leon moved to his sister-in-law’s side while Olwen briefly sketched out her story for Guinevere. Maureen was almost grey with exhaustion, and her little girls were swaying on their feet. He put a hand on her shoulder and she managed a weak smile up at him, but under the fabric of her dress he could feel her shaking.

“We’re just getting your rooms ready now,” said Guinevere, turning to both of the women. “They’re building up the fires, so there’ll be hot water for a wash, and food and drink if you want it. There’s spare clothes in there as well.”

“Guinevere, you are a lifesaver,” said Leon, gratefully. He could always trust her to think of everything - and to have it ready before you even knew you needed it. She flashed him a quick smile and then turned to his nieces.

“Shall we go find you a nice feather bed to sleep in?” she asked, kindly, and the girls nodded without raising their eyes. Elinor took her outstretched hand, while Aoife looked so close to actually being asleep on her feet that Leon picked her up instead. To his surprise, she didn’t seem to mind: she just snuggled into his arm and closed her eyes. Perhaps he reminded her of her father. Leon shared Gethin’s height, and even though he was light-haired and his brother dark, he had always been told there was a strong family resemblance. Or perhaps his niece was simply tired enough that she didn’t care as long as she didn’t have to walk any more.

Either way, Maureen looked grateful. She followed in silence as Guinevere led the way, catching up with Olwen, both women talking at alarming speed. Leon glanced at her again. His brother’s wife was small and mousy-haired, with a mouse’s habit of keeping quiet, but usually she had a certain serenity which was completely gone now.

“You’re here now, Maureen,” he said, quietly, trying to reassure her. “You and the girls are safe.”

She turned dark eyes on him. “It’s not us I’m worried about,” she said.

He felt a stab of anxiety as he was reminded of his family’s fate. How long would Rience keep them in the dungeon? What if any of them were injured? His parents were no longer young - what if they fell ill in the darkness and confinement? And what if Rience simply bored of them and decided to be rid of them altogether? Until they defeated his army, Leon would be absolutely powerless to stop it. Maureen was right to worry.

“We’ll do everything we can,” he promised. “We’ll get them out as soon as possible.”

“I know,” she said, softly. “And… and tomorrow I’ll be able to bear it.” Her eyes glistened in the light of the torches lining the walls. “Just… not tonight.”

He was about to say something to comfort her - he wasn’t sure what - when Guinevere stopped and motioned to a door. “Here,” she said. “There’s two rooms with a door in between. The water should be already heating. Call if you need anything.”

Maureen raised her head, no trace of the tears which had been gathering on her eyelashes a few moments ago. “Thank you,” she said, nodding her head as she took Aoife from Leon and picked up Elinor’s hand. “We’re very grateful.”

Olwen gave both Leon and Guinevere a quick hug before she followed. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she promised, and then shut the door behind her. Leon was left blinking in the corridor.

“It’s for the best,” said Guinevere, softly. “They’re exhausted.”

“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” he said.

She smiled at him as they moved back along the corridor, towards the knights’ wing. “It’s nothing for an old friend. Olwen’s pregnant again, isn’t she?”

“She is. Pray to the gods that she keeps it, after everything that’s happened.” She had said that her husband had been killed. Lord Pelleas had been twice Olwen’s age, but he had been a good man and he had treated her kindly, even if they had never been affectionate.

“And the other one, your sister-in-law. She is too?”

“Is she? I haven’t heard of it.”

Guinevere shrugged. “Probably not then. Still. The journey here must have been awful for them.”

Leon didn’t doubt it. First the escape from a besieged castle, and then they would have had to somehow make it through Rience’s battle lines. And even then it was a long road to Camelot, most of it on poor roads and without any villages large enough to have a proper inn. Neither Maureen nor Olwen had spoken of it, but they must have suffered many hardships to make it this far.

“And Carmelide… I hope they’re all alright.” Guinevere looked anxious. “King Uther will rescue them, won’t he?”

“Prince Arthur is leading the army himself,” said Leon. “We’ll retake the castle and the lands. And as noble captives they should be given fair treatment.”

Actually, he doubted that the rebel king would be observing the rules of chivalry too closely, but there was no sense in saying that. It would only worry her more. Nearest in age to her, Olwen and she were almost like sisters, but she had always been close with the rest of his family as well - particularly his mother after her own had died.

“Arthur’s leading the army?” Guinevere bit her lip. “Won’t it be dangerous?”

“Guinevere, he’s the prince. He was born for this,” he reminded her. “He’ll be fine.”

 

*     *     *

 

The army rode out a week later, with Prince Arthur at the head and all of his commanders close behind. Sir Leon, Sir Bors, Sir Euin, and Sir Kay each had a division of soldiers under them, and Arthur himself would command the knights. All in all, they had four thousand men and two hundred knights - a huge army, but if some of the reports were to be believed, they would still be outnumbered. Prince Arthur had been serious as they had headed out of the castle: riding in front, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he stared at the road ahead. It had taken them three days to reach Carmelide lands, and soon they would have to find Rience and his army, gather information, plan the battles. It was hardly the prince’s first combat, but it was the first time he had been in command of the entire army, and Leon could tell that he was anxious - not that he would ever have dreamed of showing it.

Bors had his squire with him - a short, slender youth by the name of Ector, who was nearing the end of his training - and Euin’s latest squire had just been knighted and was about to experience his first battle having earned his spurs. The younger knights were in high spirits; they were laughing and chattering as they rode out from the castle and headed west. Leon did not join them.

He still remembered his first battle - the one he had been knighted in. Straight after the fighting had ended, when the soldiers were still moving from body to body, looking for survivors, and he had knelt among the blood and the mud for King Uther to touch his gore-stained sword to his shoulders and call him a knight of Camelot.

And that had been nearly twelve years ago now. He had been seventeen; still a boy, really. It had been sheer luck which had seen him through that battle. Nothing to do with skill or training or even the savage, roaring anger which had overtaken him when he had seen his mentor struck down before his own eyes by a mace. He wondered how many of the other young knights would be so lucky before the fighting was over. How many men of Camelot would have to die to make his homeland safe?

It felt odd to be riding through the countryside of his childhood home again. Leon wasn’t sure which disturbed him more - the parts he didn’t remember at all, or the parts where it seemed that every leaf was familiar. Not that it mattered; today he was looking for people, not places, and there he had no better idea than anyone else.

The scouting party had been sent out that morning, with strict orders to return before noon whatever information they gathered. Like almost every other party sent out since they had entered Carmelide’s borders, they were three knights, mounted on fast coursers, lightly armed and armoured. And like almost every other scouting group, they were there to find information on Rience’s army - where it was, how big it was, which units and how spread out they travelled.

Unlike every other scouting group, they hadn’t returned.

As far as Leon saw it, that left several options. They had encountered some accident or had become lost; they had found evidence of the army and were investigating further; they had found evidence of the army and had been captured or killed. He hoped for the second. So far they had been in Carmelide lands almost a week and had found no sign of Rience’s forces. That was worrying, particularly if Rience knew where the Camelot forces were. It meant that he was planning to force a battle on his own terms. Or, if he didn’t know of Camelot’s presence, that they would just have to cast around blindly until they heard news of the enemy.

The scouting party’s route was easy to track, even if they hadn’t known where the knights had been ordered to go. It had rained the night before and the soft ground picked up hoofprints easily, so they had no trouble following the route. Sir Benifred, Sir Ulfric, and Sir Connor. Experienced knights, all of them, and tough. If they ran into trouble, they would at least know how to deal with it.

“Sir,” said one of the younger members of his party. They were larger than the usual scouting group: six in total, although two of those were squires and Sir Alwyn had barely earned his spurs. “More tracks.”

He was right: the three sets of hoof prints had been joined by a further three sets, by the look of it. Benifred and the others had been alternating between a walk and a trot, but these new prints were moving faster. Leon frowned and spurred his horse on. It looked as if the scouting party had been followed.

It was only a short while later that the knights’ tracks quickened to a canter, and swiftly a gallop. The other tracks followed, and then abruptly split: one horseman going left, one right, and the third remaining in pursuit along the track.

The buzzing of flies and the croak of carrion crows alerted them to the first horse before they saw it. It was lying awkwardly on the side of the track, the mud around it churned up beyond interpretation, its fine chestnut neck sweat-soaked and bloodstained. The crossbow bolts sticking out of its neck and flanks were easy to read.

It was Alwyn who spotted the footprints moving away from the body of the horse. They were unsteady and staggering, as if their owner had been drunk, and they only led a short way before they ended in the body of Sir Ulfric. He had been shot in the chest by a pair of crossbow bolts, and his eyes were wide and staring above the bloody ruin his attackers had made of his neck as he tried to get away.

One of the squires turned to retch into the undergrowth. Leon surveyed the scene grimly, knowing that it boded ill for the rest of Camelot as well as for the fate of Benifred and Connor. Whoever had attacked the scouting party was armed and experienced. And judging by the direction of the other prints around the body, they had ridden back to dispatch Ulfric, meaning that they had either caught the other knights up ahead, or had lost them and returned to finish him off.

They covered Ulfric’s body in a cloak - cold, and stiff, and not more than a few hours dead - and loaded it onto one of the horses, then moved swiftly back to the track to follow the fate of the two remaining knights. The men had been riding flat out, he saw by the pattern of hoof prints in the mud, and then saw the point at which they had split. By the look of it, their pursuers had followed the man on the left, which perhaps meant that the one on the right had escaped…

The leftmost tracks ended abruptly, when the horse had obviously stumbled and gone down. The knight had been thrown, he could see, but had regained his feet and continued on until-

He had been stripped to the waist, his skin pale against the vivid streaks of red-brown blood running down his chest. His hands had been stretched backwards and tied around a wide tree-trunk, lurid red marks on his wrists where the cord was digging in. There were six bolts in him, buried so deeply that they must have been fired from a very close range indeed. One on each shoulder; one on each thigh; one in his lower abdomen; one through his chest. He was slumped forwards but the bolts pinning him to the tree prevented complete collapse. His face was obscured by a tangled and bloodied mess of tawny hair.

Benifred.

Leon felt a wild, reckless surge of anger at the cruelty of it. Benifred hadn’t been killed swiftly or honourably; he had been used for target practice. Probably they had tried to make him talk before finishing him off with that one to the chest, firing bolt after bolt into non-fatal targets, listening to his screams. It was a terrible way for anyone to die: the fact that it had happened to a friend made him feel physically sick.

“Take him down,” he ordered, sharply. “Gently.”

The squires did it, although the one who had retched at Ulfric’s body was pale and trembling and almost collapsed himself as they snapped the bolt-shafts and carefully, slowly lifted Benifred off his rack of thorns. Leon concentrated on his breathing, slow and controlled, and on fighting the anger which was burning through his veins. He wanted to find the people responsible for this, and he wanted to make them suffer for it. A lot.

“Sir!” the second squire said, struggling with Benifred’s weight as the knight tipped onto his shoulders. “Sir, he’s-“ He let the body down onto its back and knelt down, ear close to his chest. “Sir, he’s not dead. He’s breathing.”

“Impossible,” murmured Marcus, beside him.

Leon hurried to the man’s side and stared down at him. For a few seconds, he saw nothing.

Then Benifred’s chest jerked, in the tiniest of movements.

“Get him back to the camp. _Now_ ,” ordered Leon, ripping strips off the end of his cloak before he even realised that he was moving. “Make something to carry him.”

“But sir, we don’t have-“

“Use your cloaks!” Leon finished tying the first of his strips around Benifred’s chest and moved onto the second, with Marcus helping. “Lift him onto your cloak and hold the corners. You two, go with him. Go straight to Merlin.”

“Merlin?”

“Arthur’s manservant. He was trained by Gaius. You _do_ know who Gaius is, don’t you?” he snapped. “ _Careful_.”

They were lifting Benifred’s body onto their makeshift stretcher, and one of the squires had almost lost his grip. Benifred didn’t react. He looked as if he was dead already.

“I expect him to still be alive when we return,” said Leon, mounting up and seeing that the remaining knights were doing the same. “Good luck.”

He clicked his horse onwards and didn’t look back. Ulfric dead, Benifred clinging on to life by the fingertips… and Sir Connor still unaccounted for. It looked like they had tried to make Benifred talk and then gone back to finish Ulfric. What did that mean for the third knight? Had he escaped? And how much had Benifred told them of Prince Arthur’s position?

He realised that he may well be riding into a trap. The soldiers who had done this were still out there, most likely still searching for Connor - and if they had already found him, they would be expecting a search party to be sent out looking for the missing knights. Perhaps they were lying in wait along the trail already. And now, with the squires gone, there were only four of them. An even fight, unless Rience’s men had reinforcements…

He glanced at the others; Marcus’ face was set in a grim frown which seemed to echo his own thoughts. At least he had experienced warriors by his side. They would be expecting trouble as much as he was, and they would be ready for it.

One of the horses whinnied, suddenly, and they all tensed. In the distance, Leon could hear an answering call. It wasn’t the sound of an animal catching a stranger’s scent; it was the sound of old friends greeting each other. Connor’s horse.

A moment later they heard hoofbeats and the animal came cantering down the track towards them, tossing its mane. The stirrups on its saddle banged against its flanks as it slowed to a trot. Riderless.

He exchanged a glance with Marcus. “Rience’s men haven’t captured the horse, at least,” murmured the older knight. “I can’t imagine they wouldn’t have tried.”

Alwyn was stroking the animal’s neck soothingly. Dried sweat along the saddle line told of a hard gallop in its recent past, but it seemed calm enough after the initial dancing around the group’s horses, and it nuzzled his hand, looking for treats.

“If I were him,” said Sir Osric, thoughtfully, “I would have dismounted to leave a false trail. Let them follow the horse and then doubled back to try to catch up with another patrol.”

“Aye,” agreed Marcus. “Let’s hope Sir Connor shared your opinion. The horse isn’t injured, at least.”

“If Rience’s men are still in the area, they will have heard the horses,” said Leon. _And if they’re not in the area_ … what could that mean? That they had already found and captured Connor - or that they had given up? Perhaps they were close by, and just waiting for the right moment to strike? He laid a hand on the hilt of his sword, more out of habit than anything else.

They moved forwards.

The sound of their horses’ hoofbeats was dulled by the thick layer of leaves lying on the track, but it still sounded unnaturally loud as they made their way onwards. With certain knowledge now that Sir Connor had abandoned his horse - whether willingly or not - their chances of tracking him were vanishingly slim. Hoof prints were easy to follow; picking up a man on foot when they didn’t know where he had dismounted, in forest which was increasingly dense…

The continued on regardless, hoping perhaps for some sign or even a deliberate message the other knight might have left. The forest began to feel oppressively silent, making even the small sounds of twigs cracking or the swish of the horses’ tails seem intrusive. A pair of pigeons clattered upwards from a tree ahead and Leon saw Alywn’s fingers twitch involuntarily. His horse - sensing his anxiety - whickered nervously, flicking its ears back and forth.

“Sst.” Osric held up a hand. He pointed silently up the bank to their left. One of the bushes rustled.

Sir Marcus put a hand on his sword hilt as Leon loosened his in its scabbard, peering into the undergrowth. They were in a bad spot; steep slopes either side of the track, plenty of cover… perfect for an ambush. But with how many men? Five? Ten? Twenty?

He caught a flash of Camelot red and the next second a man hurtled down the slope towards the track in front of them, losing his footing and skidding the last few feet. He scrambled up and faced them, wide-eyed, groping for the hilt of his sword which must have twisted out of reach during his fall. Then he straightened up in disbelief.

“Marcus? Osric? Leon?”

They blinked at him. It was the accent which gave it away; otherwise, Sir Connor was almost unrecognisable, with his face smeared with dirt and leaves and his hair tangled and sweat-soaked. He glanced up at where he’d come from and then ran towards them, making the horses shy away. Without a word to the others he seized the reins from Alwyn and hauled himself into the saddle of his own animal.

“We need to get away. Now,” he said, shortly, already wrenching the animal’s head around in the direction they’d come and digging his heels in. The horse fought the bit and bucked, clearly not happy at its rough treatment.

“What’s going on?” asked Marcus. “We’ve been looking for you all aftern-“

“Later.” Sir Connor wrestled his horse under control and urged it forwards into a gallop. Marcus and Leon exchanged frowns before they followed, the hooves of the horses throwing up clods of wet earth as they raced after him. Leon gave Gwenfrith her head and the bay mare flowed up alongside Connor’s grey, stretching her neck in her eagerness to catch him.

“What happened?” he called, ducking just in time under a low-hanging twig. Connor glanced at him swiftly and then moved his head back to focus on the track ahead.

“They found our patrol. Took out Ulfric’s horse. Beni and I split up. They followed him. I let the horse go and headed into the woods. And I found their camp. I saw them.” He glanced again at Leon, and then at Alwyn, who had drawn up on his other side, his black gelding snorting and breathing hard. “Rience’s army. I saw them all.”

“You found the army?” gaped Alwyn.

“The whole army,” confirmed Connor, his accent more pronounced as he glanced behind to check that the others were still with them. He slowed his horse a little, to a brisk canter. “I stayed long enough to be sure, and then started heading back. Nearly stumbled into a patrol. Had to run. Heard a horse and hoped it was mine.”

“They’re following you? They saw you?” said Leon, glancing back himself.

“Think so. Didn’t stay long enough to find out. They were horsed.”

“We found the others,” Leon said. “We tracked you.”

He saw Sir Connor’s rapid sideways glance and understood the question he didn’t want to ask out loud.

“Ulfric is dead. Beni… he was still alive when we found him. Just. The others took him back to camp.”

“I heard him screaming,” said Connor, grimly.

Behind them, Marcus rode up to within speaking distance. “We’re being followed,” he warned. “Horses. Maybe three or four.”

“The group that attacked you?”

Connor shrugged. “Maybe.”

“We can’t lead them back to camp,” said Leon. “We’ll have to lose them.”

“Or fight them,” said Marcus.

“You mean… kill them?” Alwyn sounded faintly anxious.

“After what they did to Beni and Ulfric? They deserve it ten times over,” said Osric, darkly.

“No.” Leon certainly sympathised with Osric; the memory of Benifred pinned to the tree with his head hanging over the bolts and the rope pressing against his wrists was still disturbingly vivid, as was the searing anger it had brought with it. But the chance to capture some of Rience’s men was an opportunity which he knew that Camelot could not afford to miss. “If we meet them we take them alive. Bring them back to camp to be questioned.”

The others couldn’t argue with that, although Osric looked mutinous and even Marcus scowled. “We only need to bring back one,” Leon heard Sir Osric mutter.

At the front, Marcus cursed loudly, hauling on his reins. His horse screamed as he wrenched its head around, almost falling backwards on its own haunches - and fouling the path of Alwyn’s horse so that it stumbled and he fell heavily forwards onto its neck. Gwenfrith snorted and shied sideways to avoid the confusion as Leon drew his sword instinctively.

“What the _hell_ was that for?” demanded Connor, furiously, struggling to calm his own mount, and then looked forwards.

He was halfway to drawing his sword when he was thrown backwards violently. His horse whinnied, kicking out, as he hit the ground with a heavy thud.

There were two figures standing on the road ahead of them.

They were cloaked and hooded, their faces obscured. One had a hand stretched out, towards Sir Connor.

“ _Gebric_ ,” her voice hissed, and she jerked her palm towards Alwyn. There was a sharp _crack_. His horse screamed and went over, throwing him against a nearby tree trunk.

Marcus and Leon had both managed to regain control of their horses; they rushed at the two figures together, swords raised. The figure who had attacked Alywn jerked her head up sharply; Leon had a brief glimpse of blonde hair and the flash of golden eyes before her fingers clenched into a fist. “ _Tóslít streorban._ ”

Warm blood spattered over his face and neck. He hit the ground hard, rolling to avoid being crushed under the weight of Gwenfrith, somehow managing to keep his grip on his sword. The impact had punched the air from his lungs. He gasped as he tried to take in what was happening.

Gwenfrith was dead, her neck a bloody ruin where the sorceress’ spell had hit. Alwyn’s horse was down and screaming, one foreleg badly broken. Alwyn was struggling to pull himself upright against a tree. Connor was lying still; his horse had bolted. Marcus was fighting - fighting against _something_ \- while his horse screamed and reared up. And Sir Osric was standing on the track, his sword limp at his side, staring wide-eyed at the ruin.

The woman and the other figure stood, impassive, facing them. The woman looked at Marcus, still slashing desperately at whatever was reaching upwards from the ground towards him and his mount. It looked like vines, or perhaps great twisting snakes.

“Good, sister. You are learning quickly,” she said. “But you should not play with your food. _Forthrysme.”_

Marcus choked, his left hand going to his neck. For a moment, he kept fighting, his eyes bulging and his face reddening with the effort. His sword fell to the ground with a _clunk_.

Leon gained his feet and staggered forwards, trying to get to the women before they noticed him moving. The second one moved her head slightly, revealing a glimpse of dark hair under the folds of her hood.

Marcus let out a final, ragged gasp and slid out of the saddle.

The dark-haired woman hissed a word and Leon was flung backwards, slamming his head against a tree trunk. He came to a few seconds later, the pain flaring through his skull and making his vision swim. The two women were still standing there, looking down at Marcus, who was kicking vainly against the leaf litter as he struggled to draw in breath.

“No. We will not kill them. Yet,” the blonde one was saying. “We need only one, after all. Let the others return to camp. Let them tell Prince Arthur what he is truly facing. Let him fear us as he should.” She raised her head beneath her hood. “Take him,” she said, and Leon dragged his head around in time to see three outriders - almost certainly the ones who had been chasing - dismount and advance on Osric, who was still standing dumbstruck at the carnage.

“Os-“ he tried to shout, but the word somehow got stuck between his mind and his mouth.

Osric, too late, realised the danger that he was in. He spun around, wasting no time before lunging at the nearest man with the point of his sword.

“ _Swif,_ ” said the woman, almost lazily. Osric dropped like a stone before the blade even reached its target, his eyes rolling up into his head.

Leon tried to push himself upright - but his limbs were heavy and dull, his balance uncertain. He succeeded only in dragging himself a few inches towards the track. They had Osric; were loading him onto a horse, were climbing onto horses themselves, were riding away. He tried again to move forwards, failed, and let his head drop to the ground, the pain still slamming through every nerve.

There was a heavy _clunk_ and then a shrill scream - half pain, half rage. A tremendous gust of wind whirled over him, tugging at his clothes, rising as the cry continued until it felt like the air itself was screaming in sympathy. Tiny pieces of something solid peppered his legs and arms. And then, nothing. Blankness.

Close by, he heard Marcus coughing, choking for air. Alwyn’s horse was still whinnying in distress.

The earth was cold against his cheek. It smelled of damp leaves; good, rich soil.

He opened his eyes to Alwyn shaking him by one shoulder. The younger knight was pale and frightened, his eyes wide.

“I’m awake,” Leon said, the words thick, and pushed himself up with difficulty. Alwyn blinked at him and then moved on, towards where Connor was still lying motionless. In the centre of the road Marcus was sitting up, his arms braced on his knees, wheezing as he tried to breathe normally.

“He’s alive but he won’t wake,” said Alwyn, his voice wobbling with shock as he knelt next to Sir Connor. He looked over at the other two knights. “What _happened_?”

“Sorcery,” said Marcus, darkly, rubbing his throat. “Powerful sorcery… at that.”

“They took Osric,” said Leon, fighting against the dizziness which was threatening to overtake him. He sat up properly and looked around. The road was littered with chunks of wood; by the looks of it, some of the nearby tree trunks has literally exploded. “What happened?”

“I shot her,” said Alwyn. “At least, I think I did. The one in the grey cloak. She fell and started screaming. Then… then I don’t know. There was a gale… things exploded. And then they were gone. Just… gone.”

“Did you kill her?” Marcus got heavily to his feet and limped over to the nearest tree to lean on it, still massaging his throat. “Bloody bitch,” he added, with venom.

“I don’t know. I think I got her in the back.”

“Good work,” said Leon. “At the least, it will put her out of action for a few days.”

“Sorcerers don’t heal same as regular folk,” pointed out Sir Marcus.

Leon got to his feet, blinking the darkness away. No permanent damage, by the feel of it. Shame that he couldn’t say the same of poor Gwenfrith. His horse lay where she had fallen, the blood soaking into the track from the crater in her neck. At least her death had been quick.

Alwyn had gone to his own horse, who was up but clearly in considerable pain, and holding her foreleg off the ground.

“Leg’s broken,” said Marcus. “Snapped clean through. Nothing you can do, lad. Kinder to end it now.” He limped over to his own horse, dancing nervously on the edge of the track, and began trying to calm him down and check him over for injuries.

“It’s a clean break,” protested Alwyn. “She can get better.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “You ever seen a broken leg, boy? It’s hard enough making Leon sit still for six months; never manage it with a horse.”

Leon shot him a look and went over to check on Connor. Alwyn was right; the man was breathing, but his heartbeat fluttered and he clearly wouldn’t be waking any time soon. Had he hit his head when he had fallen? They would need to carry him back, at any rate. It was worse than an inconvenience; Sir Connor had been the one who had seen the enemy’s position, and any injury serious enough to knock someone unconscious for this length of time was bad enough that he was unlikely to speak sense when he woke - if he woke at all. And what was worse: the pair of unknown sorceresses - who were clearly working with Rience - had Osric.

Alwyn’s lucky shot with the crossbow had done them some favours, certainly, but it didn’t make up for the fact that it was very likely that they would soon discover the location of Arthur’s camp. If they hadn’t tortured it out of Benifred already. And Rience’s army would be close - very close. They needed to get back to warn the prince as soon as possible… and pray that it wasn’t already too late.


	11. In which **** continues to get real

The night was quiet.

Leon lay on his back, staring up at the canvas roof of the tent he shared with the other commanders. He could hear Sir Connor’s breathing, heavy and slow, and Sir Kay snoring gently on his pallet. The familiar smells of woodsmoke, sword oil and leather hung in the air. His head ached. Outside, he heard the faint wail of a fox in the distance.

The night was quiet, and he couldn’t sleep.

Connor’s breathing was loud in the tent. The knight still hadn’t woken up. They had managed to get him back to camp eventually, after Marcus had gone on ahead to find fresh horses - but Merlin had looked at the wound on his head with a face grave enough to make questions unnecessary.

The prince’s face had been grave, too, when they had told him of what had happened. He had listened carefully, asked a few questions, and then gone back into his tent with a frown etched deep between his brows. He hadn’t come out again. They would all need their rest tonight, Leon knew; it was likely that there would be a battle before long, and the fighting would be hard.

The night was still quiet, and still sleep would not come.

Leon closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind. Think of something restful. A lake. A forest. Mountains. _Anything_.

It didn’t work.

The silver-cloaked figure. She raised a hand and behind him the trees exploded, sap running down the bark as red as blood, pattering onto the leaves. The mountains shuddered and shattered into flame. The lake darkened, the water running thick and black between the pebbles on the shore.

He opened his eyes again. It was no use. Every time he tried to rest, the sorceresses stalked his thoughts. He wondered if they had cursed him, or whether he was simply afraid.

This time when he let his mind wander, both women were there: the silver one and the dark-haired one as well, both cloaked and hooded. They were in a forest.

“What are you doing here?” said the blonde one, without turning around.

“I’m looking for the Lady Morgana,” he said, and then they turned as one and took down their hoods and it wasn’t the sorceresses, it was his sister Olwen and the Lady Morgana, and then they raised their hands and their eyes glowed orange and then blood was rising his his throat, hot and metallic, choking him, and he fell to his knees trying to spit it out but it was choking him and they were laughing-

He was staring up at the canvas of the tent again, his heart hammering against his chest and his throat dry. Kay was still snoring; the embers of the fire were still glowing in the centre of the floor. His head throbbed uncomfortably.

He sat up. Sir Marcus was visible in the firelight, sleeping peacefully; if he was suffering from bad dreams, he wasn’t showing it. Outside, the alarm call of a partridge tore through the silence as it took off with a clatter of wings. Leon rested his forehead in his hands and tried to breathe deeply. It wasn’t like him to be so restless; even after the dragon, when he had been suffering nightmares every night, he had never had problems _getting_ to sleep.

“Who’s there? Declare yourself!” He raised his head at the sentry’s challenge from outside the tent. It was the middle of the night: who would be sneaking around at this hour?

He pulled on his boots, and reached for his sword automatically. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might at least be some use if the sentry needed help.

The man was squinting into the forest, pale with nerves, gripping his spear tightly.

“What did you see?” asked Leon, joining him, and the man glanced sideways at him.

“N-nothing, sir. Maybe nothing. I’m not sure. But I thought I heard something there, and then there was a moment when…” He trailed off, gulping. “Sorry sir.”

“And the rest of your watch? You’ve heard nothing else?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“You did the right thing,” said Leon, clapping him on the shoulder. “Stay here and keep a close watch.”

He headed into the deepening gloom of the forest, careful to make as little sound as possible. It was more than probable that it was nothing, and that the sentry had been jumping at shadows. On the other hand, a spy trying to scope out the camp would have simply tried to melt away once spotted, so he could still be close by.

“Sir Leon!” a voice hissed. He swung around towards it.

A figure detached itself from the shadows; a horrible, misshapen figure, hunched over and lumbering straight towards him. He started and had to stop himself from stumbling backwards, his heart leaping in his chest, a thrill of horror jolting the breath from his throat.

It was only for a moment. The thing approached, and he could see that it wasn’t a monster; it was two men, one leaning heavily on the other. “Leon!” hissed Merlin, again. “Help us.”

He had Sir Osric draped across his shoulders; Sir Osric stumbling and semi-conscious, shirtless with his bare torso stained with dirt or blood. Leon understood nothing, but he moved forwards to take Osric’s weight from Merlin, hooking an arm around his shoulders. The knight groaned.

“What on earth is going on?” he asked, bewildered, as Merlin moved ahead, glancing behind them. “Merlin, what are you doing outside the camp? And where did you find Osric?”

“I found him in the woods.”

“What were you doing in the woods? Does the prince know-?”

“We need to get him back to camp,” said Merlin. “I think he’s badly injured.”

“Yes, but-“

Merlin ignored him, and by that time they were close enough to be confronted by the anxious-looking sentry, who let them through as soon as he saw Leon. His eyes were wide.

“Take him to Arthur’s tent,” said Merlin.

Sir Osric was barely able to stay upright; Leon almost had to drag him the rest of the way, and as soon as they were inside the prince’s tent he collapsed to the floor with a grunt. Arthur catapulted out of bed and stood looking bewildered at the three of them.

“It’s Sir Osric, sire. Merlin says he found him in the woods outside camp,” Leon explained, while Merlin began checking the knight over. At first glance, his injuries didn’t appear too severe; most of the marks on his chest were dirt and mud, and none of his limbs looked out of joint or broken, even if his chest was heaving and his eyes were glassy and unfocused.

“ _Merlin_ rescued him?” Arthur said, disbelieving, and his manservant shot him a look.

“I said I _found_ him,” he said. “Look.” They moved closer to see what he was pointing at. “Bite marks on his neck. Two of them. Some kind of snake, maybe?”

“He was bitten by a _snake_?” said Arthur. “I thought you said that he was taken by the enemy.”

“He was, sire,” said Leon, confused. What had they done to him? And, perhaps more importantly, how had he escaped?

“Gone…” managed Osric, the word slurred and indistinct. “They’re gone. They’ve gone. T’… gone t’…”

“We need to keep him warm and rested, and give him water if he’ll take it,” said Merlin. “I don’t know what kind of venom it is but-”

“They must have tortured him,” decided Arthur.

“No… no more. Please. No more,” moaned Osric, from the floor. “No more.”

“Merlin, where did you find him? What was he doing? Why were you in the forest?” asked Leon. Merlin looked up from where he had been trying to clean the bite wounds on Osric’s neck, pillowing his head up with a spare cloak.

“I just went outside. Um. To pee. And then I heard something further in so I went to look, and there he was, just… stumbling around.”

“A miracle that he got this far in that state,” muttered the prince.

“And that you got out of camp without alerting the sentry,” said Leon, looking narrowly at Arthur’s manservant. He flicked his eyes up guiltily.

“No more…” repeated Osric, his eyes wide and roving around the room. “S-sire, is that you?”

“I’m here, Osric. You’re back in camp. What happened? What did they do to you?”

“It’s the snakes…” Osric gulped. “But they’re not snakes. She told them to do it. The dark one. Didn’t see her face. And then they asked me questions. And it hurt. I thought I could take it but… it hurt so much.”

“What did you tell them, Osric?” Arthur’s voice was carefully neutral as he knelt down and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I… I don’t know.” He let out a sob. “I don’t know. Don’t remember. The pain…”

“Did you tell them the location of the camp?”

“I… I… I don’t… don’t know,” the knight said, his voice cracking. “I’m… sorry, sire.”

“It’s alright, Osric. It doesn’t matter.” Arthur straightened and shared a glance with Leon. “We must prepare for the worst. We mobilise at dawn,” he said, quietly.

“They’ve gone,” gasped Osric, suddenly. “Sire, the witches. Gone. They left. The men… tried to make them stay. But the blonde one was hurt. Said they were leaving. Isle of the Blessed. They said they were going to the Isle of the Blessed.” He slumped back against the cloak, his eyes half-closed and flickering. “Said Rience was not to fight until they returned.”

Leon saw the sudden light in the prince’s eyes. “Did they say how long they’d be gone for?” he asked.

Osric shook his head wearily, his eyes almost closed and his face pale in the torchlight.

“I don’t think he’ll be able to answer any more questions, sire,” said Merlin.

“Did he say how he escaped?” asked Leon. “When you found him. Did he say why they let him go?”

Arthur looked at him oddly. “You think it could be a trap? That they sent him back to us?”

“It’s possible, sire.” Leon gestured towards the knight. “Look at him. I doubt he escaped without help.”

“And Merlin found him alone.” Arthur frowned. “They would be trying to lure us into attacking as soon as possible. That makes no sense. They have the advantage; it does them no harm to wait. We cannot live off the land forever. A swift attack is to our advantage, not theirs.” He paced the length of the tent, his jaw clenched. “If only we knew where they were.”

That was the frustration. Sir Connor knew the location of Rience’s army, but he had stayed stubbornly unconscious. Benifred might have known, but had been clinging onto life by the fingertips ever since they had brought him back to camp. And now Sir Osric could also possibly tell them, and he was clearly in no state to be asked. It was almost worse than having no idea at all.

“He… he did say something,” said Merlin, in a rush. “When I found him.”

Arthur rounded on him. “Merlin! You _idiot_. Did you not think that it might be _important_?”

The boy gulped. “Well, I-“

“Never mind.” The prince pushed his fingers against his temple wearily. “Just tell me. What did he say?”

“The other side of the forest. Two leagues southwest of here. Near a mountain shaped like a cauldron.”

“Cadeir Gwyddo? With a lake near the summit?” Leon knew the mountain; the crater was steep-sided, the water fresh… a good place to camp with an army.

Merlin shrugged, still looking guilty. “I didn’t… he didn’t say the name.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Arthur’s eyes were gleaming. “This is perfect. We can march at dawn, regroup in the forest, and attack before midday.” He clenched a fist, looking as triumphant as if they had already defeated Rience’s army. “Leon, find the other commanders. We have a battle to plan.”

 

*     *     *

 

Leon screamed defiance along with all of the others as the two forces rushed each other. He was a veteran of too many battles to lose control completely, though; even while he was running full tilt at the wall of bristling enemy weapons, he was calculating the best course of attack.

He jinked at the last moment, twisted inside the reach of the nearest spear, and then shouldered it sideways. The move opened up the guard of the man wielding it, and threw the aim of the one beside him as their heavy ash shafts collided. Leon had withdrawn his sword from the gap between the first man’s chest and shoulder plates by the time his neighbour recovered his balance, and he was already well inside the reach of his spear anyway.

He caught the second man’s spear as it fell from his lifeless hands, and turned it back on Rience’s lines, ducking a hasty blow by the soldier in the second row. Around him, the air was thick with shouts, cries of pain, the heavy _clunk_ of swords on shields and the clash of metal on metal. Leon preferred not to block with his sword; there were few edged weapons which could do damage to his plate armour, and trying to counter every blow quickly became exhausting. The danger was an opponent skilled enough to find the gaps in his armour - or one with a blunt weapon and a strong arm.

Many of the knights fighting for Arthur were young and inexperienced, he knew. Their mentors could talk until they were blue in the face about the advantages of saving their strength - and their blades, since a poor block could damage a sword beyond repair - but the truth was, none of it mattered in a young knight’s first battle. It was luck which would see them through until they could look back and consider their own mistakes. That was how every knight learned.

Now that he was a commander, he saw the battle differently. They had gone over and over the battle plans, discussing formations, tactics and stratagems until late into the night the evening before, and he had drilled the plans into the unit commanders under him in the morning as they had marched. On the ground he had nothing more to do but lead from the front and hope that his men would follow, and even if in his mind he could see the whole battle mapped out as it should be, he had little idea of whether it was playing out as it was supposed to from here. All that he knew was noise and blood and sweat.

Leon took a blow to the shoulder from a tall man in leather armour; a bruise, nothing more. Normally he might feel a little dishonourable about killing someone who was so clearly outmatched - there was little leather armour could do against a sword. In the heat of battle, he was just another man who had tried and failed to kill him. Leon returned the blow with a swift cut to the man’s own shoulder; he went down, screaming.

He had let himself become distracted, and had forgotten to measure his own progress; he suddenly realised that he was surrounded by Rience’s men. Individually, none of them were much danger to a fully armed and armoured knight; as a group, he could easily be overwhelmed. He didn’t wait for them to realise their advantage.

Spinning in a tight circle, he surged back towards their own lines, cutting left and right with his sword, not caring that the men blocking his way avoided the blows. He turned again when he had reached the red cloaks of Camelot, and then recognised the armour of the man beside him.

“Sire,” he said, nodding briefly.

The Prince returned the gesture, his sword stained dark and his chest-plate spattered with gore. “Sir Leon.” He lunged forwards with the point of his sword; another man fell. “It’s going well?”

Leon had little idea of the battle overall; when on the ground, it tended to diminish into one man, then the next, and the next. Tiny boiling knots of fighting with no higher aim.

He parried another slash with a sword, pushed the man’s gauntleted arm away, and caught him in the face with a swift elbow. The knight went down. “Going well here, sire,” he said, gasping to try to get his breath back, and then the battle swirled them apart again like leaves in a stream.

The next man was more of a danger; he had a vicious-looking two-handed morningstar, and he swung it threateningly. Now _that_ could do a knight some serious damage.

Leon ducked the first blow and sidestepped the second. The man might not have been a knight, but he knew his weapon, and he was using it to its full advantage - keeping the weapon moving in front of his body and fast enough to prevent Leon closing with his sword. The morningstar wasn’t a particularly sophisticated example of its kind - more like a long club with spikes nailed in by the village blacksmith - but beauty had little use on the battlefield. Six foot of solid ash and iron had a lot more use.

Leon twisted again to avoid the next blow, and saw his chance; it had been a downwards strike. He seized the shaft of the weapon and slammed it further down before the man could recover. The spikes of the head drove into the mud already churned up by countless feet and hooves. In the man’s second of shock at the unexpected impact, Leon had whirled around and caught him square on the face with the edge of his sword. A mercifully quick death.

He just had time to glance around him properly before the next opponent closed. Rience had not organised his men well, he saw; at least two groups had broken away from the main lines and were surrounded. Arthur’s tiny force of heavy cavalry were wreaking havoc behind enemy lines: Sir Bors had taken them through the forest and outflanked the armies. Rience’s spearmen were trapped on the front line, far away from the horses - and his archers were suffering from the lack of support. By contrast, Camelot’s crossbowmen were entertaining themselves by shooting down stragglers from Rience’s line as they tried to break away and run. The entire force, Leon sensed with the hard-won experience of many battles, was on the edge of panic.

The next two men went down easily; they were tired, bloody and frightened. The one after that was a tougher challenge; Leon was careless by then, and he let his guard down long enough to receive a dizzying blow from a mace. Luckily for him it caught his shoulder plate before it skidded onto his helmet. If it hadn’t, it might have shattered his skull like an eggshell - padding or no. As it was, it left him staggering, his ears ringing, and it was only the swift distraction of another knight that stopped his attacker from landing a finishing blow.

He shook his head, trying desperately to focus and stop the world spinning, as some other soldier swung a sword hard at his stomach. He couldn’t have been experienced with the weapon, or he would have known that the blade would never cut though mail; still, perhaps that didn’t matter. It was a desperate, two-handed blow, and it connected hard enough to take the breath from Leon’s chest in a single, painful _whoosh_.

He felt a gauntleted hand on his chest giving him a hard backwards shove, and before he had time to think or even try to draw breath, he was confronted by a wall of swirling red cloth. Leon choked in a lungful of air in the brief respite from the chaos; by the time he had drawn himself upright again, the knight in front of him had turned around. Olyvar gave him a lopsided grin through the mud and gore and extended his left hand.

“Getting careless, Leon?”

Leon returned the grin and the hand clasp ruefully. “Going well?”

“Not dead yet,” said Olyvar, and dived back into the fray, slicing left and right with his sword. Leon followed, defending his friend’s left side as they waded through the blood-slicked mud, through crumpled forms of dead and dying men from both sides. Rience’s forces seemed thinner on the ground, now, with more and more of a gap between one opponent and the next. That probably meant that Camelot was winning.

The combatants blurred together, as they always did. Leon allowed his mind to close down into single-minded purpose; first this man, then the next, then the next. He lost his waist-knife saving Olyvar from almost being stabbed in the chest, and had to rely on his sword alone. The blood ran red down the gutter, staining his mailed hands, and his hair dripped sweat into his eyes under his helmet.

An ageless time later, he found himself without an opponent and with enough time to look around the battlefield. The few men left standing were wearing Camelot red, many of them leaning on their swords or kneeling down in the mud. Only in a few places did the fighting continue; the majority of Rience’s surviving men were running or limping away. Mostly Camelot soldiers let them go, too weary to give chase.

Beside him, Olyvar sank to one knee gratefully and ripped off his helmet, his skin shining with sweat. His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed in deeply.

“Hot work,” he commented, wiping a hand across his forehead and leaving a bloody smear. Leon dropped a hand onto his shoulder and then headed across the battlefield to where three of Rience’s men were valiantly trying to maintain a final stand, fighting against two Camelot knights and a peasant wielding the splintered remains of what looked to have been a war scythe. A few others had had the same idea as Leon and were moving to help; confronted by six men, Rience’s soldiers dropped their weapons. Two tried to run, one of them slipping and falling. The other, already limping on a wound to his leg, simply dropped to his knees, head bowed.

One of the knights went for a swift sword thrust. Leon caught him by the arm before he could land the blow.

“That is uncalled-for,” he warned, softly. “Or have you forgotten the code of chivalry?”

To his surprise, he recognised the face of the man who stared back at him from under the helmet. Sir Alfric was wild-eyed and gore-flecked, and Leon had a sudden and powerful reminder of the fight on the battlements against the dragon - of the sound the young knight had made while he was cradling his burned arm. Of the heat rushing around them as the dragon’s mouth erupted in boiling flames, orange eyes burning in the night-

He dropped Alfric’s arm as if it was still searing with the heat of dragonfire and stumbled backwards. Alfric shook his head, as if to clear it, and then nodded and turned away from his fallen enemy, his eyes dazed. It must have been his first real battle: Leon recognised the glazed shock from a hundred rookie knights before him. He took a deep breath to try to stem the flood of fear the memory of dragonfire had released. _Find a distraction_.

He looked at the other men: two of the guards he didn’t recognise. The other knight was Sir Marcus, whom he knew only by sight. The peasant was breathing hard as he examined his shattered weapon. Leon extended a hand.

“You fought well. Your name?”

“Garel y Blodau, sir.” The man took his hand warily, staring at the bloodstains on Leon’s armour.

“You’re from around here?” The man’s accent was certainly local; Leon recognised it from many childhood escapades into the surrounding valleys.

“Aye, sir.”

“Come to the castle once this is all over, if you wish. Camelot could use a soldier like you.”

The man’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Yes, m’lord.”

Leon nodded and turned back, scanning the men milling around the battlefield for the distinctive armour of the prince. He spotted his manservant first and began moving towards him; wherever Merlin was, Arthur was sure not to be too far away.

Arthur had taken off his helmet and was gulping down water from a flask when Leon reached him. His sweat-soaked face broke into a grin when he saw him coming.

“Leon. Good to see you alive.”

“And you, sire.”

“The day is ours,” Arthur said, sounding exultant. “And Carmelide too.”

Leon nodded and took off his helmet to survey the battlefield properly. Both sides had taken losses, but Rience’s were certainly the heavier. It would be a long task, dealing with the aftermath of the fight: it always was. Wounded to treat, survivors to find, prisoners to take, corpses to bury. Counts of the dead of both sides. After the heat of fighting, nothing brought on a chill faster than recognising a fallen comrade… except perhaps recognising a mortally-wounded comrade and having to do the deed yourself, out of mercy.

“I haven’t seen Rience yet,” he said, rather than voicing his thoughts out loud.

“He wasn’t fighting,” said Arthur, darkly. “We would have recognised him.”

“His forces were not well organised,” Leon agreed. “Which suggests that he wasn’t commanding them personally.”

“He’s still in the castle, then?” said Merlin, staring wide-eyed at the carnage before them. Despite his words, it didn’t look as though he was paying much attention to their conversation. More likely he was calculating the amount of work he and the other physicians would have coming their way.

“Unless he’s fled already. We should make haste,” said Arthur, “before he escapes. After today he’ll know that his only chance is to run.”

“If he defends the castle-“ began Leon.

“-Then he’s a fool,” finished Arthur, decisively.

“Perhaps, but it is a strong keep. It will not be easy to storm by force if he is prepared,” said Leon, scanning the Camelot soldiers who were already beginning the difficult task of looking for survivors among the twisted bodies in the mud. How many men would be ready to fight again? Probably not even a third of their force, one way or another. The battle had been hard.

The feeling was beginning to come back; first the bone-draining exhaustion, followed swiftly by the pain of a hundred minor injuries. It was a familiar sensation by now; the battle-fever carried a man through, sometimes for hours… but once the fighting was done, the pain inevitably caught up with you. Leon winced as his limbs began to stiffen up and the headache hazed in across his eyes. There had been a nasty blow across the head from a mace, he remembered, followed by a particularly savage one across his stomach with a sword. And then one on his back with a morningstar; better than it could have been, but he could feel the blood trickling down his spine from where at least one of the spikes had punched through the plate.

He would be more bruise than man by nightfall, he knew from long experience. The worst part was usually trying to rise the next morning; the combination of fatigue from hard fighting and the stiffness from unavoided blows made movement… undesirable, to say the least. And that was without any open injuries which could result in wound fever, the flesh raw and tender and unbearable to touch.

All in all, he wasn’t eager to begin storming a castle any time soon, and he knew that many of the others - even the uninjured ones - would be the same if not worse. At the same time, the thought of Rience having the opportunity to slip though their fingers and disappear… no. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Arthur was clearly of the same mind; he was also scanning the remaining men thoughtfully.

“We’ll take a small force now. Surround the exits to the castle. If Rience tries to escape, we’ll stop him.”

“And if he doesn’t?” asked Merlin.

“We’ll go in and find him.”

Leon considered. He wanted nothing more than to get this over with, as soon as possible - after all, his family were still prisoners in the castle. But he had no wish to throw away his life rashly, either. Trying to fight while he was exhausted and sore would make him far more prone to mistakes. Mistakes in this kind of game rarely ended well. “With how many men? There aren’t many who will still be able to fight, after today. I doubt we’ll have enough to take it by force, if he has it defended.”

Arthur considered, his head on one side. Then he smiled, sudden and unexpected.

“We don’t need to take it by force. Once we get to Rience, it’s all over. We just need to find a way inside. One they won’t expect.”

Merlin frowned. “How?”

“We need someone who knows the castle inside out. I think,” said Arthur, sounding pleased with himself, “that might be Leon’s area.”


	12. In which Arthur gets all righteous

He was exhausted. The majority of the army had been left behind at the battlefield, in charge of tending the wounded and burying the dead. Normally he would be one of them, listening to the men complain as they shovelled earth over bodies of enemies or gathered wood for the pyres of comrades. This time he envied them. At least they had rest to look forward to after the work.

His injuries of the battle, although minor, were becoming more and more troubling as his strength ebbed and his focus was drawn irresistibly to the throbbing of the wound on his back or the strain in his ribs. He tried his best to ignore them and think instead of the best route to take once they were inside the castle. Dwelling on the pain would only make it seem worse - and besides, Arthur had been fighting just as hard as he had, and he wasn’t showing signs of flagging. Nor were the other four knights with them, even though Leon could read the slightly glazed expression in their eyes and knew that they were as tired as he was.

Five knights, the prince, and Merlin… certainly not enough to take a castle by storm. That was why it was so important for Leon to get his memories of the castle straight, and map out their route practically step by step. Their whole plan relied on being undetected right up until they reached the throne room. Leon wondered if he could do the same thing back in Camelot. Probably a useful exercise when planning patrol routes…

He was letting himself become distracted again. He needed to keep his mind anchored or they wouldn’t even get past the first corridor.

The group reached the base of the outer castle walls and paused, huddling into the shadows in case of particularly sharp-eyed guards on the ramparts above. The night was quiet, the moon a slender sickle above them. Almost too dark for Leon to see what he was looking for.

The bramble had grown since he’d last been here; what had been waist-height then was now taller than he had been the last time he’d used this entrance. Leon’s father had known the value of young children’s play, and he had given them free rein in the castle provided they told him about all of the secret passageways they found. This was the only one open to the outside which he hadn’t blocked up; the bramble bush had been planted to conceal the entrance, which was known only to Leon, his siblings, and his parents. Lord Leodegrance had kept it open; at the time, Leon had assumed that it was in response to the children’s pleadings, but he understood now the value of having a secret escape route in a stronghold.

Or a secret entrance. He inched past the bramble, tugging at where it caught the fabric of his trousers, until he reached the tiny hole in the wall. Smaller than he remembered, but it had been a squeeze even when he was eleven.

He looked round to check that the others were following, and then ducked down and began to inch himself through the gap. The double-wall of the castle made this difficult; you had to fit through the hole in the outer wall, then shuffle sideways in the gap between the two before reaching the second opening, and somehow climb up through the second hole, which was around chest height. He was glad that they weren’t wearing their cloaks, this one time. They only ever got in the way on active missions.

For a few desperate seconds, he thought that he might not even make it through. The ridiculousness of the thought of being wedged half-in, half-out of a tiny gap in the castle wall for the foreseeable future gave him the effort for one last determined push and he scrambled out into the tiny cellar. Behind him, he heard the sounds of one of the others trying to wiggle through after him.

He leaned against the wall, suddenly tired, while the rest of the knights climbed through, grunting quietly with the effort. Sir Marc very nearly got stuck, until they pulled him through to land in an undignified heap on the stone floor. Merlin was the last, his slight frame letting him through the gap in the stones with ease.

The cellar was completely dark, and Leon was glad for his childhood memories which gave him a rough idea of where the door was. He had to feel for the key, which was hidden behind a loose stone making up the doorframe, and he almost knocked the stone to the ground while doing it. His silent admiration for his father’s foresight increased; by choosing that hiding pace, Leodegrance had made sure that the door could be opened from either side, by those who knew how.

The removed stone didn’t increase the light in the room, which was reassuring; there were no burning torches on the other side. That was just as well - the hinges hadn’t been used in years, and it took a good few shoves before the door groaned open enough to let the group through. So far, so good.

They moved through the maze of corridors carefully, each man with a hand on the shoulder of the one in front, with Leon guiding mostly by a combination of memory and feel of the walls as he followed them. Still there were no lights to indicate Rience’s men: clearly, they had not yet discovered the lower cellars. Most likely they had got as far as the wine cellars the floor above… and if they were drunk, so much the better.

They reached the tiny spiralling servant’s stair without major difficulties, beyond stumbling a few times on loose masonry on the floor. The servants’ stairs had been Leon’s younger self’s goldmine - they ran most of the length of the castle, fitting neatly into the smallest possible spaces between rooms and coming out in unexpected places, a vast spiderweb of access routes to be mapped out and then used for countless games of hide-and-seek or capture-the-flag. The advantages of a castle as old as Carmelide were chiefly, as Leon’s father had observed dryly one day, useful for entertaining children.

And of course, now they would be useful for a much more serious purpose. Leon’s planned route made extensive use of the servants’ network, and he was hoping that the majority of it wouldn’t be occupied. Rience had, in all likelihood, taken charge of the family’s servants. While they were more used to serving in the manor where Leon’s family actually lived, there was a small group who maintained the castle in case of official ceremonies or formal entertaining, and who naturally were well-acquainted with the corridors and stairways he was hoping to use.

It wasn’t that meeting them would be such a problem; servants loyal to Leon’s family would probably help rather than hinder, so long as they recognised the family resemblance. And anyway, no servant roamed the hallways armed. The problem was more the possibility that Rience had brought his own servants, and that they had also - in that unnerving way which castle staff always seemed to have - sniffed out the passageways as well. Leon was hoping that the late hour would mean that the servants were in bed, but the look Merlin had given him when he ventured that suggestion had told him exactly what an actual servant thought of that. It was the evening after a battle, he reminded them; Rience would be awake and planning, and that meant that he would be awake and making unreasonable demands on the castle staff as well.

The way in which Merlin said the words _unreasonable_ _demands_ had caused Arthur to give him a sharp look, but since he was right, the prince had decided not to argue.

They moved slowly. Leon was straining to remember the exact routes they needed to take, and his aching muscles were straining to obey his decisions. It was a lot of stairs upwards, at any rate; the throne room were they had guessed Rience would be was on the ground floor from the perspective of the main castle entrance, but they had come in right at the base of the walls. Carmelide was built on the peak of a hill, with one side of it clinging to a relatively steep rock face, and the portion of the fort which was below the main entrance was almost equal to the portion above.

Leon stopped, suddenly, at almost the exact same time as he felt Arthur’s hand tighten on his shoulder. They had been creeping along in the dark; now there was a flicker of orange light ahead of them. A torch.

They pressed themselves into the side of the staircase, ears straining for the sound of footsteps. The light playing on the rough stonework of the curved walls was receding; whoever was carrying the torch was heading upwards and away from them. Still they waited until it was completely dark again before continuing.

They stopped again, a few twists and turns later, this time outside a door which Leon half-remembered led into a corridor by the kitchens. This time it was because they heard voices. They were coming from the other side of the door, and quiet as they were, Leon was close enough to hear them through the wood.

“… Inside the castle,” said the first one, a man.

“I haven’t heard anything, I swear,” said the second, a woman’s voice.

“If Rience finds out any of you have been hiding something from him…” said the first, leaving the unspoken threat to hang in the air.

“I’m not.”

“And if you hear _anything_ about intruders in the castle and keep it from me, the consequences will be _very_ nasty.” The was a pause. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said the woman, distastefully, and then there was silence. Leon assumed that the two must have walked away; a moment later, he heard the man’s voice again, too faint to make out the words.

The next moment, the door opened. Leon flattened himself behind it by instinct, and by some miracle the woman closed the door behind her before she noticed the knights. She gasped.

In an instant, Arthur had grabbed her, one hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. Her torch dropped to the floor with a wooden clatter and she went very still.

Merlin picked the burning torch up as Arthur loosened his grip slightly.

“We mean you no harm,” he murmured, in her ear. “I’m going to release you now. If you scream we will stop you.”

She nodded and he let her go. She was shaking in the glow of the torchlight. Then she caught sight of Leon and gasped again.

“M”Lord Leon! What are you-?”

“Shh,” warned Arthur. “Quieter.”

“How did you get here?” she whispered.

Leon looked at her more closely; older perhaps, and more rounded, but he thought he recognised her as one of the kitchen maids from years ago. Probably a cook now, he realised.

“We have no time to explain. We need to get to Rience,” he said, gambling that since she hadn’t screamed and fetched the man running, she could probably be trusted.

She nodded. “He’s in the throne room. They were having some sort of meeting, but it’s over now. He’s called for wine,” she added. “They suspect you might be here - well, not _you_ exactly, but they think there’s someone in the castle and-“

Arthur cut her off. “Thank you. Is the throne room guarded?”

“Yes, and-“

“Let’s go. You, with us.” Clearly, Arthur did not want to take the chance that the woman would talk, no matter how much she helped them. “Lead the way and if there are others, cough.”

She blinked in fright. “I don’t-“

“Don’t have a choice,” Arthur finished for her. “When this is over, you’ll be rewarded. Go.”

 

*     *     *

 

The servant’s staircase opened out just around the corner from the throne room, the corridor well-lit by torches and already draped in the green-and-gold of Rience’s colours. There were guards at the entrance to the throne room, of course, but they were taken by surprise and they were completely unprepared for the sudden fury of the Knights’ attack. They went down swiftly, and Prince Arthur headed confidently towards the door, sliding his sword into the crack and yanking it upwards to dislodge the beam blocking it. There was a heavy _clunk_ on the other side.

Arthur would have rushed straight through, but Leon put an arm on his shoulder to draw him back.

“Sire, are you sure you should-?”

Arthur stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. Standing to one side of the heavy oak, he pushed it open slowly.

It was well that he had shown caution; a crossbow bolt _thudded_ into the wood almost as soon as it began to move. Clearly, if Rience was in there, he was not prepared to negotiate.

Arthur met Leon’s eyes, across the entrance, and nodded his thanks briefly. He pushed at the door again, opening it wide enough to see inside.

“Two guards,” he mouthed, and then pushed it open fully and strode into the room.

“Rience,” he said, his voice ringing around the throne room, full of authority.

“Prince Arthur,” said the figure on the throne. “I had not thought you would get this far, I admit.”

Leon followed, along with the others, and stood with his sword out and ready, staring at the man who had imprisoned his family and ransacked their lands. Rience was no weakling. Even sitting down his bulk almost filled the throne, and he was nearly as tall seated as Arthur was standing. His jaw jutted out as if it were trying to escape his face, set below sharp dark eyes and a hawklike nose. One massive hand rested casually on the spine of a crossbow.

The crossbow was loaded, Leon noted, and was almost impressed with the speed with which the man must have replaced the bolt he had fired. Then he saw the second crossbow leaning by the throne and understood. Clearly, Rience was not a man to take chances.

Clearly, Arthur was. Either he hadn’t noticed the threat at the rebel king’s fingertips, or he didn’t care. He approached, his face set and hard.

“It is over, Rience. Your army is scattered; you are defeated. You can come peacefully to stand trial in Camelot, or you can fight and die here.”

Rience laughed. “Stand trial? Frankly, I don’t rate my chances there. And your position here is not as strong as you think, Arthur Pendragon.”

Leon saw his finger twitch, ever so minutely, on the trigger. He tensed. Rience was going to try something, he was sure of it. And the two guards either side of his throne were gripping their halberds, ready to fight.

“I am the rightful prince of these lands,” Arthur said, evenly.

“You’ll struggle to get out of this castle alive. You came in by some deceit; don’t try to deny it. Think you can get out that way too?”

“Raise the alarm and we’ll kill you where you sit,” Marc warned. “You won’t take that risk.”

Rience turned dark eyes on him. “Won’t I?”

“You’ll come with us quietly,” said Arthur, with certainty. “Because you know your only chance to escape is on the road to Camelot.”

The man smiled cynically. “And I know that you’d never let that happen. Besides, I haven’t been captured yet.” He lifted the crossbow, one-handed, as easily as if it had been made of feathers. “What if I were to shoot you now, Prince Arthur?”

“You’d die.”

Rience snorted. “Five Camelot knights, and a boy? I’m insulted.”

“Then shoot me.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed; he too was trying to work out Rience’s game. Leon had a horrible feeling that it was a lot more simple than it appeared.

The king shrugged. “Fair enough.”

His finger tightened on the trigger.

Arthur started backwards, the sudden fear showing in his eyes as he realised that Rience had meant every word of his threat.

Merlin stretched out a hand in horror, as if to stop the bolt with sheer force of will.

It was Marc who was closest to the prince; Marc who moved, lightning-quick, to shove him out of the way. They both tumbled to the floor. Everything else erupted in confusion as Rience’s guards rushed the knights with shouts that echoed off the walls, and Rience himself rose with a roar and drew his sword.

Leon was suddenly too busy to wonder about the crossbow bolt; his reactions, dulled by tiredness and the ache across his back, were almost too slow to avoid the wickedly sharp point of the halberd, which would certainly have driven straight through his armour. He dodged aside at the last moment, not quick enough to attempt a counter-strike.

He weighed up their odds. Marc and Arthur were out of the fight for now, whatever had happened. That left him, Sir Oswold, Sir Kay, and Sir Olyvar. And Merlin, not that he’d be much help here. Four against three was an even fight, especially when one of the three was at least seven foot tall and had a reputation for murdering kings.

The guardsman had gone past him; now he was grappling with Kay. Oswald and Olyvar were both engaged with the second guard, trying to open up his defence while staying out of reach of his halberd. That left… that left Rience, who was currently striding towards the crumpled heap of Arthur and Marc. Someone in that heap was moving, so at least one of them was alive.

Alive until Rience got to them. Leon launched himself forwards to put himself squarely between Rience and the prince, his sword out and ready. He was, he knew, one of the tallest knights in the squad back in Camelot, but Rience made him look like a stripling youth. The rebel king laughed as he came on, and aimed a casual swipe with his sword which whistled through the air.

Leon moved to block with his own sword, and the hilt was almost driven out of his hand by the force of Rience’s blow. Shocked, Leon fell back a step. It hadn’t looked like the man had put any effort in at all, and yet a blow like that could have shattered bone easily.

He ducked under the next swing, instead, his wrist still numbed from the impact, and darted forwards under Rience’s guard with the point of his sword. Rience turned his own swipe into a quick, sharp downwards blow with the hilt, catching Leon in the back of his head. If it had had the force of a true hit, it would have shattered his skull like an egg; as it was, he heard a sharp _crack_ as he was driven to his knees, his vision flickering.

The rebel king smiled wolfishly and took another step, sword ready for the finishing blow. Somehow, his foot caught at the last second on a piece of the carpet leading down from the throne and he stumbled instead, falling forwards and colliding with Leon’s kneeling form before he could rise. They both went sprawling, all of the remaining breath crushed out of Leon’s body by the man’s suffocating weight.

The next thing he saw clearly was Arthur’s face above him, but the prince wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Rience, who was struggling to rise, one hand pushing down on Leon’s chest painfully.

“By the power vested in me by my father, the rightful King of Camelot, I accuse you of murder, treason, deceit, and corruption, Rience of Ireland. I sentence you to trial by single combat,” said Arthur, his voice hard. “Get up.”

“Bastard boy,” snarled Rience. “I’ll cleave your head from your shoulders.”

“The trial begins now,” said Arthur, as Rience gained his feet and Leon gasped, choking down air. He felt a hand hauling him upright and struggled to his feet.

“He’s massive,” said Merlin, fearfully, beside him, and then flicked his attention to Leon briefly. “Are you alright?”

Leon didn’t have the breath to speak, but he nodded, tearing his gaze from Rience and the prince to quickly take in the rest of the throne room. Rience’s two guards were dead. Kay was wounded but still standing, backing away and clutching his arm. Olyvar was unhurt, and had dragged Marc out of the way of the fighting. Oswald was lying slumped against the wall beside them.

He returned his attention to Arthur and Rience, who were still circling each other warily. Rience was still smiling. Arthur was deadly serious, his eyes narrowed and every limb tense and ready.

Rience tried a slow cut, testing the prince’s defences. Arthur gave him nothing; he simply avoided the blow, keeping his feet moving on the bloodied flagstones, watching his opponent’s moves with single-minded focus.

Rience’s grin widened and he held his sword out in front of him contemptuously, point straight towards Arthur’s chest. A massive weapon for a massive man - on anyone else, the broadsword would have required two hands to even lift.

“You’ll be easy to beat,” said Rience, into the silence. “I know you, Arthur Pendragon. You have no real strength. You couldn’t even protect your sister. You don’t know where she is, do you?” His teeth flashed. “I do. I know all your weaknesses.”

Arthur didn’t answer, but kept moving, slowly, forcing Rience to turn in a circle. It was close to dawn; the light in the throne room was grey and gold from the windows and the torches. Leon almost had his breath back, now, although his chest felt like it creaked with every movement. He wondered how long it would be before more guards came. Then he noticed that someone had re-barred the door. It must have been Merlin, in all of the confusion. Smart.

“That’s why I came for Camelot,” continued Rience. “A kingdom is only as strong as its king, after all. And what a ripe plum for plucking your little city will be. Conquering it might distract me for a whole month. Or perhaps I’ll just burn it instead.”

He was trying to goad Arthur, Leon realised - trying to make him rush into an attack and make a mistake. And it was almost working. Outwardly, the prince hadn’t changed, but Leon knew him well enough to read the tautness in his features and the anger etched into every muscle.

“Do you think your father will be disappointed, when he learns that you’ve failed? Still, I imagine he’s used to-“

Arthur let out a wordless roar of rage and launched himself at Rience. The rebel king’s boast had not been an idle one - he must have heard of Arthur’s reckless streak, and his taunts were perfectly calculated to get a reaction from him. He had underestimated one thing, though.

Arthur’s sudden rush was far from clumsy and unskilled. He didn’t aim for Rience’s chest or head - he aimed for his relatively unprotected legs, a swift cut low down before Rience could get in a proper counter-blow. Arthur let his rush carry him onwards, past Rience, and turned sharply.

He hadn’t avoided the blade completely; blood ran freely from a slash on his back, just below his shoulder. Nor had Rience escaped - the wound on his right leg meant that his was unable to put weight on it, and his movement to face his opponent was lumbering rather than graceful. He had lost his smile.

Arthur had the advantage now. He had been quicker than the rebel king to start with, but now he could dance around the edges of the fight while Rience stood in the centre, forced to keep turning and turning on his bad leg to keep up. Still, the danger was not over; Rience’s next blow had none of the restraint of his earlier test-swipes, and Arthur’s instinctive block shivered along his blade with jarring impact. Arthur’s entire arm would be numb from that, Leon knew from experience.

Rience knew that too; he followed up with a second devastating swipe which Arthur had to drop and roll to avoid. If the injury to the rebel king’s leg was slowing his turns and making his blows more clumsy, it seemed to have had no effect on his strength. A third slash caught Arthur by surprise and opened up another small wound, this time near his elbow. Rience was beginning to regain his smile and he swung again, and again, forcing Arthur to scramble back towards the wall under a heavy rain of blow after blow.

Merlin reached up a hand to grip Leon’s shoulder tightly, all of his attention fixed on the fight, as Arthur almost stumbled against the wall and Rience raised his arm for another savage downwards stroke. Leon, more experienced than Arthur’s manservant, had seen what he had not. Arthur’s retreat was not that of a desperate man trying to escape; it was as calculated as his earlier circling of Rience had been.

The blow landed where Arthur had been a moment before, as the prince suddenly braced himself against the wall and sprung forwards. It was half the impact and half surprise which made the man drop his weapon; the next second, he grunted as Arthur’s sword drove deeper into his chest, with the full weight of the prince’s leap behind it.

Rience wasn’t about to die easily; even as his eyes widened in shock and his blood spilled on the ground, he had seized the prince by the shoulders and smashed his forehead into Arthur’s. They both collapsed together, Arthur’s hand going to his head as he dropped to his knees, and Rience grasping vainly at the blade still lodged in his chest.

Merlin ran forwards to help the prince, who was shaking his head, dazed, his eyes unfocused. Rience was dying slowly, gasping like a fish on land, his legs kicking uselessly against the floor. Blood and spittle were bubbling on his lips and running down his massive chin.

“Bloody… bastard,” he gasped, finally managing to wrench the sword partway out before slumping back down. He drew in another choking breath and twitched violently, apparently trying to crawl to his feet.

Leon turned away from the man and went to Olyvar, who was bending over Marc. The younger knight was lying awkwardly, the crossbow bolt sticking starkly out of his back, his breaths coming jerky and difficult, his eyes wide and unseeing.

“Should be dead, hit with a bolt at that range,” said Olyvar, softly, “but I don’t call him lucky.”

Leon looked the injured knight over critically. “Might make it, though. How’s Oswold?”

“Just unconscious. Got his head cracked against a pillar. He’ll be alright.”

“Have a killer headache when he wakes up,” said Sir Kay, joining them. “What can we do for Marc?”

“Merlin will have to have a look at him. He’ll last a while like this, long as we don’t move him. The danger’s when the bolt comes out,” said Olyvar, then tightened his grip on Marc’s shoulders as he jerked. Leon looked at the young knight closely; under the pale skin, he was beginning to look almost blue around the mouth, and there was dark blood coming from his nose. And his ears.

“Merlin!” he shouted.

The boy came immediately, glancing anxiously at where Rience was still twitching on the floor, and knelt down beside them, his frown deepening as he looked at Marc’s face.

“Poison,” he said, briefly, and ripped the crossbow bolt out of Marc’s back without any further explanation. He threw it aside and bent to listen to the man’s breathing, then started frantically trying to untie the belt over Marc’s chainmail. “Help me,” he said, with real urgency in his voice. “We need to uncover the wound before-“

Marc drew in a final, rattling breath, and then lay still. Merlin’s fingers stilled, trembling slightly, and then he moved them to Marc’s neck. “He’s gone,” he said, his voice shaky.

Olyvar laid the knight down gently, and closed his eyes.

“He poisoned his crossbow bolts,” he said, his voice level and belied by the burning anger in his eyes. “If Marc hadn’t pushed Prince Arthur out of the way…”

Merlin was shaking, although he was trying to hide it by turning to examine Kay’s arm. Olyvar and Leon both looked over at where Rience was still dying, none-to-quietly. Leon put a hand on his friend’s shoulder before Olyvar could go to him; he saw the rage rising in his eyes and understood the desire in him to make Marc’s killer suffer. To make his death long and his agony drawn-out until he begged for mercy.

“We’re not going to stoop to his level,” he said, quietly, and drew his knife. He caught Arthur’s eye, and at the prince’s nod, strode quickly over to the giant’s side. Rience’s eyes rolled as he looked up at him, his face a mess of spit and blood, his clothes and hair stained dark red-brown, and mouthed something incomprehensible, his face twisted.

“This is more than you deserve,” said Leon, and ended the man’s life with a swift thrust to the throat.

 


	13. In which we learn the dangers of old wounds

He took the steps down to the dungeons two at a time, keeping his sword out and ready. The guard at the entrance was ready for him, too, with a short spear clutched in both hands. Leon didn’t have the patience to deal with him.

“Rience is dead,” he said. “Either you can give me the keys and run, or I can kill you now and take them. Your choice.”

The man blinked, uncertainly, as if he was unsure whether or not to trust him. The realisation dawned that if a Camelot knight was freely running around the castle, it didn’t bode well for Rience’s men. He dropped the spear.

“Mercy, m’lord,” he said, his voice unsteady.

“The keys.”

The man fumbled at his belt. “Yes m’lord.” He tossed the keys and stood back.

“Get out of here,” Leon said, already moving past him and into the cells.

His youngest brother and sister were in the first one, already waiting at the bars; they must have heard his voice.

“Leon?” said Tegan. “I _knew_ it was you. Have you come to rescue us?”

He grinned as he tried the first key in the lock. “Little sister, did you doubt that I would?”

“It’s the one with the square head,” she said, helpfully, pointing to the bunch of keys. “I watch them unlock it when they bring us food.”

“Never miss a trick, do you, Tig?”

She threw her arms around him as he opened the bars. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Good to see you too, little sister. And you, Owain,” he said, clasping his younger brother’s arm because he knew how much Owain hated being reminded that he was the baby of the family. “Are you both alright?”

“Well enough,” said Owain. “Not hurt, anyway.”

The next cell contained Lady Gwenith. Leon’s mother looked tired and worn, and the hug she gave her second-eldest son after he unlocked the bars was tighter than usual, her eyes crinkling with worry. “Leon, are you well? What’s happening?”

“We’ve retaken the castle. Rience is dead. I’m fine,” he said. “What about you?”

“Fine. Worn out with worrying, but fine. We need to get your brother out of here, Leon.”

“Gethin? What’s wrong with Gethin?”

“He took a wound in the fighting. I haven’t been able to see him since they brought us down here, but he’s stopped answering when I call. Sometimes I can hear him crying out, but the words don’t make sense.”

“What about Father?”

“Here, Leon,” came a voice. “Get Gethin first. I’m alright.”

Leon stepped out and peered into the gloom of the next cell. At first, he couldn’t see anything; then he realised that the huddled shape on the floor must be his brother. He fumbled with the keys in the lock.

“Gethin?”

The bars creaked open and he hurried to his brother’s side. “Gethin. Can you hear me?”

The shape shifted and groaned, softly. Two glimmers of light told him that his brother’s eyes were open.

Leon glanced up and saw his mother and Tegan standing by the bars. He tossed the keys at them. “Here. Free Father and the others. I’ll take Gethin.”

“Lee?” said the man on the floor, wonderingly, rolling over. “Is that you, Lee?”

“I’m here, Gethin. Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

“No, no, you can’t be here, this is a dream. Another dream. Or a trick. Damn you, Rience…” mumbled Gethin. Leon put a hand on his forehead. Burning hot. And his hands were like ice.

He hooked an arm around his brother’s chest and hauled him upright. Gethin gasped in pain and slumped against him, unable to support his own weight.

“It’s the wound,” he choked, struggling to keep his feet. “Damn spear, I should’ve seen it coming. Couldn’t clean it here. Now I’m dying. Tell Maureen - tell the boys…”

“You’re not dying, Gethin,” said Leon, feeling the cold grip of fear in his chest even as he said it. “Come on. We’ll go up to the castle.”

“You can’t go up there. Rience burned it down. He burned everything down.” Gethin took a few faltering steps forwards and then doubled over, grimacing. “No point…”

“He’s in a bad way,” Leon said, too worried to be relieved to see his father appear at the cell entrance. “We need a physician.”

“I’ll find one,” offered Tegan, and sprinted off without waiting for an answer.

“Tegan, be careful!” Lady Gwenith called after her, and then looked to Leon. “Is it safe yet?”

“We’ve cleared out the inner keep. She’ll run into Camelot knights before she gets herself into trouble,” he reassured her, still trying to help his brother move forwards. Their progress was agonisingly slow.

“We can’t go back,” gasped Gethin. “Not with Rience there. They say he’s a giant.”

“He’s delirious,” said Leon. “Doesn’t know what he’s doing or saying.”

“And Rience is dead, you said?” asked his father, following.

“Prince Arthur killed him in single combat.”

“The prince is here?” Leodegrance rarely sounded surprised by anything, but the note of shock in his voice was unmistakable.

“He’s in the throne room, having his wounds seen to. Nothing serious,” he added, before either of his parents could cut in. “But you can’t fight a giant without gaining some scars.”

They reached the stairs and Gethin slumped against him again, exhausted. His brother was normally an inch or so taller than he was, straight-backed and proud; it was almost physically painful to see him so hunched and shrunken within himself. The steps seemed to go on forever, and more than once, Leon had to throw a hand out to the wall to avoid them both tumbling back down.

They were met at the top by a very excited Tegan, with a hollow-eyed Merlin in tow. Arthur’s poor manservant looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week - which probably wasn’t all that far from the truth.

“I saw the Prince!” she burst out, before anyone else could speak. “I saw him! He said to bring Merlin to make sure Gethin’s alright. This is Merlin,” she added, flinging a casual arm behind her.

Leon almost smiled. “I know who Merlin is,” he said. “Is Prince Arthur…?”

Merlin nodded. “A few cuts and bruises, nothing serious. Is this your brother?”

Gethin groaned as Leon shifted his weight slightly; he was hanging off his younger brother’s shoulders like a sack of extremely heavy potatoes. “It is. He took a wound in the fighting and it’s gone bad since. He’s burning up with fever.”

Merlin nodded absently; he was already feeling the man’s forehead and pushing up his eyelids to get a look at him. “The sooner we get him warm and rested, the better,” he said. “I’m not as good as Gaius, but I’ll do everything I can for him. Are you well, Sir Leon?”

Leon considered the way his entire body was aching, his back throbbing, his chest creaking with every breath. “Yes. All I need is to sleep for a week, I think.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” sighed Merlin, as he helped Gethin limp away.

 

*     *     

 

It felt good to have his family free again, not least because Lord and Lady Leodegrance immediately took control of the situation and of the castle, leaving Leon free to collapse into the first bed he found. His father, contemptuously brushing off the idea that having been a prisoner for more than a month he should rest, gathered together his imprisoned knights and took them to secure the rest of the keep and the city. His mother immediately began overseeing preparations for the victory feast that evening, while simultaneously supervising beds, food and physicians for Arthur and the remaining knights, and organising the clean-up of the mess in the throne room.

Leon didn’t know about most of that, of course; as soon as he was content that Arthur and the others were being adequately looked after, he crawled into a bed and slept like a rock until evening came. Predictably, everything hurt when he woke. The hot water to soak in went some way to soothing the aches in his muscles, even if the tub rapidly clouded with blood and sweat and dirt from the battle of the day before, and the clean clothes someone had thoughtfully laid out for him were a welcome alternative to chainmail and plate. It felt odd to be wearing the purple-and-blue of Carmelide instead of Camelot red-and-gold.

Considering the siege and occupation of the castle, and his parents’ imprisonment in a dungeon until that morning, they put on an impressive display for the evening’s entertainments. Mostly, Leon had to admit, all he cared about was the food - and there was plenty of that. Judging by Prince Arthur’s expression as the courses were brought out, he was of the same opinion; none of them had eaten properly since before the battle.

The Prince was on his father’s right side, of course, and Lady Leodegrance was in her typical spot at her husband’s left. Leon was where his brother should have sat. Gethin, despite Merlin’s efforts, was not well enough to attend - his wound had festered in the dungeon and he was still in the grip of a fever which rendered him almost senseless. His parents were worried, Leon knew, despite their attempts to hide it; both of their eyes flickered towards the door a little too regularly, as if they were waiting for the physician to burst in with news.

The men of Camelot’s army were enjoying the festivities, he could see - but of the five remaining who had taken part in the raid on Rience’s stronghold, there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t look as exhausted as he felt. Prince Arthur was trying valiantly to keep his eyes open, which was made even more difficult by the fact that one of them was bruised and swollen almost completely shut; of the knights, only Olyvar looked even half alive. Kay’s arm was in a sling and Oswold’s face was as pale as his dark complexion allowed. Merlin, for once, was not by Prince Arthur’s side - he had been instructed to stay with Gethin until he was out of danger.

It wasn’t often that Leon would have liked to swap places with Arthur’s manservant, but now was one of those times. His attempts to make conversation with his mother or Tegan, who was sitting beside him, were feeble at best. Multiple times his younger sister had to actually wave her hand in front of his face to get his attention. Eventually she gave up and went back to pestering Olyvar on her other side, who bore her chatter with slightly bemused good grace.

It gave Leon a chance to focus on eating, at least, which he was grateful for. His mother was too distracted worrying about Gethin to really mind that her son’s answers had been reduced to monosyllables. It wasn’t until the sweetmeats had been brought out that he stopped feeling ravenous and could begin to actually take in the surroundings. Arthur had cheered up and was laughing with his father about some joke, his face pale but his cheeks flushed with wine and relief. His mother had excused herself after the main course and gone to check on Gethin. Tegan was in the middle of some complicated-looking story, which Olyvar was clearly trying desperately to follow, and Owain was hanging onto Kay’s every word as the knight re-enacted some battle using half-eaten pieces of bread and wine goblets.

Suddenly he needed to be away from the noise and the people. He stood up, abruptly, surprised at how unsteady he felt.

“Take it easy, Leon,” grinned Arthur, from further down the table. “Looks like you might’ve had too much already.”

He shook his head as the others laughed. “Not drunk,” he muttered, making his way slowly down the table towards the exit. Not drunk. He wasn’t sure what he _was_ , but it seemed important.

He made it out of the door and took a few steps before slumping against the wall, exhausted. What was wrong with him? Surely he couldn’t be drunk already - not on half a glass of wine. He must just be overtired. It had been an exhausting few days, after all, and his ribs and back were still aching.

Leon pushed himself upright and made his way back to his room slowly, pausing every so often to lean against the wall. It was cold in the castle, and draughty. No wonder Lord Leodegrance had been so eager to move his family out into their manor house when he’d given up his kingship. He shivered.

The servants hadn’t even lit the fire in his room; he was back far earlier than the feast was expected to end. He didn’t really care, though; all he wanted was sleep. Sleep would make him feel better. He staggered over to his bed and almost fell into it, too tired to even remove his clothes. He would change in the morning, he thought, vaguely, and barely had the energy to crawl under the covers before he was asleep.

 

*     *     *

He woke up in the middle of the night, feeling weak and shivery, all of his thoughts confused. Something was wrong. Leon put a shaking hand to his forehead: burning hot, damp with sweat. One of his wounds… one of his wounds… a fever. Nothing more than a fever. That made sense. Or did it? He wasn’t sure what sense was, any more. His thoughts were heavy and fogged, as if his mind was lost in some dark mire, mist-soaked and uncertain.

Through the haze, he recognised that his throat was raw and aching, and his back was throbbing. It was just a fever. It would be over in the morning. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again Sir Tristan was there, the man he had first squired for all those years ago, tall and dignified under all of his ceremonial plate, looking down gravely at him, his dark eyes piercing. But no, no, that couldn’t be; Tristan had died at the battle of Caerfael, the very same battle Leon had been knighted by King Uther for trying so valiantly to save his master’s life. The big knight had been knocked off his horse by a slingshot, and then taken a mace to the head; Leon had pulled him clear of the carnage, stopped him from being trampled by the panicked horses, dragged him to safety behind their lines. Defended him from shot and sword with his own shield; with his own body, when that had been lost. Had taken an arrow to the calf for his trouble -he had been lucky, it had caught in his cloak, the scar was barely even visible now.

Sir Tristan still stared at him, solemnly, not speaking.

“You can’t be here,” Leon told him. “You’re dead.”

As soon as he said it, he saw Tristan’s face begin to cave - like crumpling paper, blood running over it like ink on a page. The mace had made a red ruin of the side of his mentor’s head, he remembered; Leon had been dragging a corpse long before he had reached the safety of his own lines. Had he screamed when they had removed the man’s helmet? He didn’t think so - surely he had just turned away, run back to the battle, a wordless cry of rage tearing out of his chest. Hadn’t he? The memory was blurred. Was he screaming now?

Tristan’s face kept shifting, melting, crumbling. When Leon looked back he was gone; in his place stood Aelinor, his black curls hanging limply, his eyes sorrowful. “You’re dead too,” Leon said. “You died. I didn’t see it but he broke your neck.”

Aelinor shook his head. “Leon,” he said, but his voice was Olyvar’s. Now it was Olyvar standing there, a worried frown between his brows.

“Olyvar?” tried Leon. “Are you here? You’re not dead too?”

“No, I’m here, Leon,” said Olyvar, but then he reached forwards with an arm which was charred and burnt like the limbs of all those men on the field after the dragon - Egfred and Uwain and Oswyn and… and they were all there, all reaching towards him, their burnt faces gaunt and their lidless eyes staring. “We’re all here.”

Leon shrank back, the skeletal fingers crumbling to ash and blood before him. They were coming to take him, he knew. Coming to claim him back to where he belonged. He should have died in that fight; everyone knew it. He had been living on borrowed time ever since. And now his comrades were calling in his debt.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault,” he cried out, afraid. “I didn’t mean to. It was the dragon.”

“Leon?” A voice, distant but familiar. Was it real or was he dreaming? Had he been dreaming the others? Tristan and Olyvar and Aelinor and all the rest. Were they real? They had been, at some time, but what about now? When was now?

They were fading, now, back into the darkness of the room: just shadows on the walls. He reached a hand after them, to stop them, to apologise, but when he looked down at it it was crumbling into ash, the bones of his fingers stark white as the flesh melted away. There was a streak of dark red running down the white of his bones, blood dripping between the stripped tendons.

He opened his eyes again to a dark room, but the streak of red on white was still there, dancing in his blurred vision. He felt a twinge of pain from the crook of his elbow which was swallowed almost immediately by the wash of agony from his back. It smelt bad. The room smelt bad, of rotting flesh and blood and sweat and fear.

He wished he could leave it but somehow he was trapped inside his own body; he couldn’t move. He had the vague impression of someone moving above him; the flash of silver from a knife. He tried to jolt away, tried to cry out. Somehow he was sure that the knife was meant for him. They were going to cut him open, going to see what he had inside him which had kept him alive for so long.

“We have to find his luck,” he heard a voice whisper, long and sibilant, joined by others, twisting and slithering through his brain. “It’s in there somewhere. We just have to open him up to find it.”

“No, no, no-“

“Hold still.”

“No! You can’t take it!”

“Sstop moving.” The voices hissed again, like snakes pressing up against his thoughts. He tried to twist away from them and found himself caught in something; trapped, unable to move.

“No,” he moaned, terrified at his weakness. “No, you can’t have it.”

“We’ll take it in the end,” the voices answered, full of malice. “All things come to us in the end.”

The dragon was there, burning golden eyes in the darkness, surrounded by a wreath of fire and dread. The flames were all around him, boiling and rolling like the sea whipped up by a storm. He was burning: his skin searing, cracking with the heat, curling up on itself like paper caught in a flame. He saw himself crumbling to flakes of ash, swirling away as the fire tore around him. He was nothing, and the hand he stretched in front of himself was just charred bones.

He slept, then, restless and fitful, for an ageless length of time: too exhausted to keep being afraid, too afraid to fully give in to his exhaustion. When he came to, dawn was creeping in through the window, bathing the room in soft golden light. He felt like death, but at least the hand he passed over his eyes was just a hand again: skin and sinew and bones and blood pulsing through his veins, warm and firm and alive.

It was his own fault, he supposed. He had known that he should see a physician about his wounds, and he had put it off. The knot on his back where the morningstar spike had landed was rock-hard, swollen and warm to the touch - not to mention almost unbearably painful. It would need draining, and that wouldn’t be pleasant in the slightest.

He staggered to his feet and dressed carefully. There was a bandage on his elbow which hadn’t been there before. He thought he’d dreamed the knife and the blood running down his arm, but someone must have called a physician to bleed him to bring the fever down. Leon hated being bled. It always seemed to leave him feeling woozy.

He met no-one as he made his way carefully through the corridors, stumbling occasionally. He probably shouldn’t be up and moving in the state he was in, but the fever was down now and that was the worst of it, so long as he found someone to dress the wound properly.

Finally he came across a servant, hurrying through the corridors carrying freshly-washed linen. The woman nearly didn’t stop as she brushed past; he had to actually catch her arm. Not that he could grip it with any force, but at least it made her jolt out of whatever daydream her mind had been caught in.

“Where is everyone?” It wasn’t what he had been going to ask, but something about the deserted corridors and the way she stared at him made him suddenly anxious.

“They- in the prince’s room, m’lord.”

“Prince Arthur? Why?” he asked, fighting the rising sense of dread.

“He took ill in the night, m’lord. That’s all I know,” she said, and bobbed a curtsey before hurrying onwards.

Leon had a sudden, vivid memory of blood. _Blood spilling out of nose and ears. Marc twitching as Rience’s crossbow bolt drained the last drops of life from him.Rience’s poisoned crossbow bolt. Rience sitting on the throne: one crossbow fired, one more loaded. Not a man to take chances._

The fear spiked and he was running, struggling to keep his feet as the last tendrils of fever made his steps clumsy.

_Prince Arthur ducking down as the massive blade bit into his upper arm. Nothing but a flesh wound: a scratch._

_Not a man to take chances_.

He smashed his shoulder into a wall as he turned a corner and almost fell. Somehow he kept going.

There was a crowd outside the Prince’s door. He recognised Olyvar and his siblings standing anxiously, trying to see in; Sir Bors, pacing up and down, glancing every few steps at the door, a frown between his brows; his parents, standing still and rigid and tense.

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

Olyvar turned. “Leon! You’re up.”

“Of course I’m up. What’s going on? Is the Prince-?”

Olyvar chewed his lip. “He took a fever during the night. Like you. We thought it would pass. But then… he started shaking. And…” He shook his head, unwilling to go on.

“There was blood. Coming from his nose and his ears,” said Kay, softly.

Leon swallowed. “Rience.” He felt sick.

“He must have poisoned his blade,” agreed Kay.

“So the Prince…?”

“Merlin is doing everything he can.”

“What’s going on in there? Why is the door shut?”

“He ordered everyone out. It was too crowded. The Prince needed air - he was struggling… struggling to breathe…”

Leon closed his eyes and let himself slump against the nearest wall. Not now. Not when they had come so far. Defeated Rience’s armies… re-taken the castle… rescued his family… only to fall at the hand of a dead man?

A hand on his shoulder made him look up. “Are you sure you should be up, Leon? They said you had a bad fever last night.” Olyvar managed to look sympathetic even though his eyes were taut with concern.

“You do look pretty rough,” said Kay, attempting a weary smile. “I thought it was just the wine.”

“I feel rough,” he admitted. “But I’m not much use lying around in bed, am I?”

“We’re not much use here either,” muttered Bors, half to himself.

“Our place is by Prince Arthur’s side,” said Leon, firmly. “Whatever happens.”

The others were silent. They all knew his words were true: they all believed them. And all of them, he knew, were thinking what would happen if… if the unthinkable should happen. The memory of Marc’s rattling last breath was all too recent.

But the prince… it had only been a small wound. Marc had taken a bolt to the back: a full dose of whatever foul potion Rience had dipped it in, straight into his flesh and guts. Prince Arthur had only had a few scratches. It hadn’t even started to take effect for a full day after the fight. It wasn’t the same. It _couldn’t_ be the same.

The door opened and Merlin stepped out. The Prince’s manservant looked utterly exhausted, with deep shadows under his eyes and his cheekbones even more hollow than usual. He looked at the assembled group as if he had forgotten that they were there.

“He’s resting,” he said, to their expectant silence. “The worst is over.”

“He’ll live?” asked Lord Leodegrance, urgently.

Merlin nodded. “I think so. Just.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Merlin,” said Olyvar, gripping his arm earnestly. “A miracle worker.”

The boy flinched. “No. Just well trained by Gaius.”

“Can we see him?”

Merlin rubbed a hand behind one of his ears. “He’s sleeping. I don’t know for how long. It would be best not to wake him.”

“Someone should watch over him, though,” said Leon’s mother. “In case something should happen. Not you,” she added, before Merlin could say anything. “You’re exhausted. You need rest yourself.”

“I’ll wait,” volunteered Bors, before Leon could step forwards. “I’m probably the best-rested, looking at you all.”

Leon couldn’t argue with that, much as he felt like he should be watching over the prince. Besides, he needed to go to a physician. He’d put it off long enough but it was beginning to feel like an effort just to stand up.

His mother took his arm as the group dispersed. Her grip was firm and left no room for breaking free as she steered him down a corridor. “Leon. They tell me you had a fever last night. What have you been doing to yourself this time?”

“I know, I know. It’s just a battle-wound. Nothing serious.”

“Leon-“

“I’m going to find a physician to dress it.”

“Lee-“

“There’s no need to worry, mother.”

She stopped and turned him to face her. “Leon. Listen to me.” She broke off, studying his face as if she wasunsure of what to say. He suddenly realised that she was fighting back tears.

“Mother…” he said, uncomfortably.

She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “I’m glad you’re here, Lee. That’s what I wanted to say. I’m glad you came.”

Leon realised that his worry over Arthur had eclipsed everything else. He had forgotten that his parents had been languishing in a dungeon with no way of knowing what was going on or whether their children and grandchildren were safe; he had forgotten that his brother still lay in the grip of a fever from which the physician had refused to say whether he’d wake; he had forgotten that this was the first time he had seen half of his family for years. He felt a hot rush of guilt. When he was in Camelot, it was all too easy to forget that he had anyone who might miss him at all.

He couldn’t seem to find the words to comfort her, so he put a hand on her shoulder instead, ignoring the flicker of pain from his back. She met his hand with her own, warm and comforting. “How’s Gethin?”

His mother sighed and looked away from him. “Not well. Maureen is with him now.”

“When did they arrive? Is Olwen here?” Leon’s sister and sister-in-law had been given a tent in the main camp, far away from the fighting, but they had probably been helping with the wounded when the news came of Carmelide’s liberation. He hadn’t seen them since before the battle.

“They arrived in the early hours. Olwen is helping with the injured soldiers in the Main Hall.”

“And Gethin?”

Lady Leodegrance tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. “He’s… he still has a fever,” she said, softly. “He doesn’t recognise any of us. They’ve re-dressed his wound and cleaned it out, but…”

She didn’t need to say any more; the fear in her voice was all too obvious. He squeezed her shoulder gently, but the words of reassurance caught in his throat. He’d seen too many men die of wound-fever, seen too many who were reduced to burnt-out husks of their former selves, hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed. It frightened him that it might be his brother next.

“Anyway,” said his mother, with forced animation in her voice. “You need to get yourself seen to. The physician will probably be around somewhere. Try-“ she bit her lip, and he could see that she was struggling to speak normally - “try in the Queensroom.”

The second-best room in the castle. Gethin’s room. He didn’t even have to read the expression on her face to know that she had been trying to bring herself to say her eldest son’s name. He nodded and tried to swallow the knot of worry in his throat.

Maureen looked up as he knocked and entered the Queensroom, her face relaxing slightly as she recognised him. His sister-in-law looked strained, older than he’d ever seen her and without the usual light in her features. Her quick smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“How is he?” Leon’s voice felt unnaturally loud over the quiet crackle of the fire; the room smelled of sweat and woodsmoke. Gethin was lying, looking shrunken and small, under a small mountain of bedclothes. His eyes flickered restlessly under their lids and his forehead was damp.

His sister-in-law sighed, wearily. “His fever still hasn’t broken. Sometimes he wakes, but he doesn’t recognise me.” Her hand tightened on her husband’s, just a fraction. Gethin didn’t respond. “The physician says there’s little more he can do.”

“Merlin’s been?”

“He says the same.”

“He’s a good man; he was trained by the king’s own physician.”

She nodded, absently, not taking her eyes from his brother’s face. Leon didn’t know what to say. There didn’t seem to be much he _could_ say. He had never seen Gethin look so weak, so fragile. So old. His brother was only seven years older than him, but he looked like an old man: thin and haggard, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Leon wondered how long he had spent in that dungeon cell with the damp and the cold creeping through his bones.

An unexpected jolt of anger cut though his anxiety. His father had told them of how he had lost the city to Rience - how the Irish usurper had come out of nowhere, stormed the city walls, overcome the small force of knights sent to defend the keep while the citizens fled to safety as best they could. How he had marched right up to the castle gates and told Lord Leodegrance that he would set fire to the entire town unless he opened them. How he had thrown the captured Gethin into the mud at his feet - twisted the broken haft of the spear still in him until Leon’s elder brother had screamed - and casually added that he would use Leodegrance’s heir as the first kindling.

One death was too good for him.

Leon realised that he was clenching his fists and had to consciously relax them. Maureen didn’t know most of that story - as far as she was concerned, her husband had taken a wound in the battle and then been thrown into the dungeons with the rest of his family. He didn’t want to add to her burden. Not when the strain was so plain on her face. His brother was lucky in his marriage, he reflected. He couldn’t see his elder sister showing such dedication to her husband. Not that it mattered now, with Lord Pelleas dead and Olwen a widow.

On the bed, Gethin stirred and groaned and opened his eyes blearily. “It’s not… I didn’t see it… not that bad,” he muttered. “Thought I saw her. Thought I saw them both. I don’t know…”

“Gethin, Leon’s here. Your brother Leon,” said Maureen, touching his hand, feather-light. His eyes flickered to her and then on to Leon’s face. He frowned.

“It was a spear,” he mumbled vaguely. “Didn’t see it coming. Was looking at… was looking…” Gethin trailed off, his eyes flickering shut. A bead of sweat crawled down his brow into his tangled dark hair. His chest jerked upwards and his fingers tightened around his wife’s. Maureen bit her lip and then raised her chin a fraction, clearly determined not to give in to emotion.

“He’s like that every time,” she explained, her voice only betraying the faintest of tremors. “He keeps reliving the battle.”

Leon remembered half a year ago; lying in Gaius’ chambers, delirious and shivering, with the heat of dragonfire whirling and the skeletal hands of his dead comrades stretching towards him. He felt a familiar twinge of panic and fought it down. “It happens like that,” he said. “It’s like… like you can’t escape until it’s etched into your mind.”

She pressed her lips together. “I hate to see him suffer.”

“Do you love him?” he asked, suddenly. It had been an arranged marriage: Gethin, heir to Carmelide, and the Princess Maureen, second daughter of the Irish King Eoin. It had been advantageous for both of them. His brother was happy in his marriage, he knew, but happiness was not love.

She was silent for a moment. “No. Not the kind of love like in the poems and the stories. But… but I _like_ him, Leon, and I think that’s more important, don’t you?”

He considered. “So you’re happy with him?”

“Yes. I respect him. I enjoy spending time with him. And I can’t imagine life without him. I think perhaps there are different kinds of love.”

“I’m glad,” he said. She sighed, and he saw the strain in her face and felt guilty for prying. Especially now, with Gethin…

“Did you want the physician, Leon?” she asked. “I heard that you took wounds in the battle. I think he went down to the Hall.”

He was shaken from his thoughts, and realised that Maureen was very politely suggesting that he left. He thought he understood why; he knew the effort it took pretending to be normal when your mind was in turmoil. He nodded. “Yes, I’ll go there now. I hope…” For the second time that morning, the right words eluded him. “It will be alright, Maureen,” he finished, lamely, and ducked out of the room before he could see her expression.

 


	14. In which we learn what victory means for background characters

Leon barely stepped through the door of the Great Hall before Olwen had thrown herself on him, hugging him tightly enough to make him wince. “I’m so glad you’re safe, Lee,” she said, into his shoulder, and then disentangled herself, pressing down her dress, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I was just worried about you.”

He smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t have guessed. You’re well?”

“Of course. Wasn’t even near the fighting. Tired, maybe, but that’s nothing.”

“You’ve been helping here?” he asked, taking in the scene. The Hall had been transformed into some kind of giant infirmary; makeshift beds everywhere, filled with wounded or unconscious men. Servants flickered between them, doling out drinks or bowls of something steaming. Moving more slowly, he saw a few physicians, administering medicines or stitching up wounds, and some women bandaging and poulticing injuries. Leon had seen more than a few post-battle medical camps, in his time: this one seemed to be well-run and well-stocked, at least.

“Here and in the camp. Your friend has been moved here,” she added, taking his arm and winding expertly between beds to one where Benifred was lying, his eyes closed, his bare chest covered with bandages stained with old blood. “He’s better than he was. Even woken a few times.”

“You’ve taken good care of him, Olwen. I’m grateful,” he said, meaning it.

“And what about you? I heard that you were injured,” she said, looking him up and down critically. “You do look awful, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Thanks. I can always count on you to be honest, can’t I?”

“I mean it. Are you hurt?”

“Not badly,” he reassured her. “Mostly just bruised and sore. I’ve got a wound on my back that needs dressing, though.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then,” she said, cheerfully. “I’ll find someone who’s not too busy.” She disappeared without waiting for his reaction, leaving him alone with Benifred.

The older knight looked to be sleeping peacefully. One of the servants moved past with several bowls, glanced uncertainly at Benifred, and then looked at Leon. He accepted one from her and she bobbed her head neatly before moving on. Leon touched his friend’s arm, just below the bandaging.

“Benifred,” he said, softly.

The man stirred and opened his eyes, staring blearily around himself until he caught sight of Leon. His lips curved upwards slightly. “Not dead, then,” he said, his voice husky.

“Not dead,” confirmed Leon. “And you’re not either, although you look to have given it your best shot.”

“Mmm,” Benifred agreed, moving his head slightly and wincing. “I feel like it.”

“You must have some ox in your ancestry. Most men would be dead after those injuries.”

Benifred smiled again. “Should meet my Aunt Petrenilla,” he said, with a sort of rasping chuckle.

Leon grinned. “Got your sense of humour back as well, then?”

“Your sister… clearly a miracle worker.”

Leon raised an eyebrow; there was something in Benifred’s voice which spoke of something more than simple gratitude towards Olwen. “I’m glad you two get along,” he said, carefully. “Soup?”

Benifred eyed it critically. “Suppose… I should say ‘yes’,” he grumbled. “Keep trying to make me eat more.”

“Keeps your strength up,” said Olwen, brightly, appearing with a bearded man hurrying along behind her. “You’re awake again, I see. Leon, this is Thomas. Thomas, my brother Leon, who has been throwing himself around - as usual.”

“Hardly the only one here,” said the old man, his eyes glinting with humour. “What seems to be the problem, hm?”

“Only my back. A morningstar spike,” said Leon.

“In the battle? Hm. Has it been dressed since then?”

“I… uh, haven’t looked at it since the battle,” admitted Leon, and the man looked disapproving. Strangely, it reminded Leon of Gaius, even though the two men looked nothing alike. Perhaps it was a look that all physicians perfected. He sat down beside Benifred’s bed while the man felt his forehead and checked his eyes and then made him take off his shirt so that he could examine his back, while Benifred pretended to be focusing on the soup Olwen was giving him so that he could hide his smirk.

“Well, you have a touch of fever, and I’m hardly surprised,” said the man, poking at the wound on his back apparently for the sole purpose of trying to make Leon wince. “This will need draining and then dressing, but it should heal cleanly. Hm. I shall have to lance it now, though. Are you prepared?”

Leon shrugged. “Do what you have to.”

The man was less gentle than Gaius’ usual techniques; his involved heating up a wicked-looking needle and shoving it into the skin, then pushing down on the wound until Leon could feel the liquid running down his back. He managed not to cry out, although there were nail-marks on his palms by the time it was over from where he had been clenching his fists so hard at the effort of it. The man cleaned the wound with some stinging liquid, and then slapped on a poultice and secured it with a few swift, efficient strokes. Leon flexed his shoulders when he was done, feeling the ache as the wound stretched out. At least his treatment was quick; painless would have been too much to hope for.

“I’ve been to see Gethin,” he said, after the physician had been thanked and had left. Olwen’s smile dropped.

“I heard he’s not well.”

“Wound-fever. Badly.”

His sister looked pale and tired in the light filtering in from the tall windows of the hall, and now her shoulders seemed to slump as if she could no longer keep up the effort. “How badly?” she asked, with a weary sort of fear which spoke of the many men she must have seen die of their injuries in the past few days.

Leon shrugged unhappily. “He’s still alive.” He didn’t feel confident saying much beyond that. In truth, his visit had frightened him. He had always looked up to his eldest brother; Gethin was seven years older than him and had never seemed less than invincible. Seeing him now, fighting for his life - perhaps even _losing_ …

He shook his head. On the face of it, winning back Carmelide had been relatively simple: one battle, one final fight. How had the cost climbed so high? Benifred, Arthur and Gethin all close to death - Ulfric and Connor murdered, Marc poisoned, and countless others killed or wounded on both sides. Half of Rience’s army had been unwilling conscripts, men who had been taken from their homes and families and ordered to march on a neighbouring kingdom with no clear idea even of who they were fighting for.

He suddenly felt exhausted. Olwen put a hand on his shoulder, looking sympathetic. “Come on. Let’s find some food,” she said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You look dead on your feet.”

They headed to the kitchens and begged some bread and honey, then headed up to the ramparts to sit and eat. From up there, they could see the entire Camelot army, camped in tents around the entrance to the city. Beyond that, the rolling hills and forests of Leon’s childhood home stretched before them, rays of sunshine slanting through the clouds and picking out the snow-capped peaks of the surrounding mountains. Olwen sighed and leant back against one of the crenellations.

“It feels odd being back here,” she said, thoughtfully. “Once you’ve left.”

“It does,” agreed Leon.

“Remember when we locked Gethin on top of one of the guard towers?”

He smiled. “He was so angry. I thought he’d smash down the door.”

“And now we’re not children any more.” She sighed. “Why do you think Father did it? Surrendered, I mean?”

“He had no choice.”

“Do you really think Rience would have torched the city?”

Leon considered. Rience had been a cunning strategist. Carmelide’s value was as a gateway to Camelot; he would have needed to have fed and housed his army there. Burning the town would have left no food, no shelter, and no people to work for the army.

“I’m not sure. Probably not.”

“I had no idea Father was so sentimental,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

She looked at him sideways. “If we know it, you can be sure Father knew it. If Rience couldn’t afford to burn the town, his threats were meaningless. So Father did it to save Gethin.”

Leon almost dropped his bread in surprise. “You know about that?”

“About what he did to Gethin? Of course.”

“But Maureen doesn’t.”

Olwen shrugged. “I haven’t told her. She’s probably worked it out. She’s not stupid, Leon.”

“Clearly.” He looked back out over the hills. “Nor was Rience. Whatever the reason, his plan worked.”

She grinned. “These Irish.”

“What will you do now?” he asked, looking back at her. “Now that it’s over?”

Her smile faded; she looked thoughtful. “Move back to Astinor again, I suppose. And hope that this one is a healthy boy.” She rubbed her growing stomach. “If I’m not carrying an heir, I’m not sure how happy the people will be for me to take the lands.”

“There aren’t any other heirs,” pointed out Leon, and his sister shrugged.

“I’m not of the blood. And a woman.” She shook her head dismissively. “What will be will be. What about you?”

He frowned. “I’m going back to Camelot with Arthur. When he recovers enough to travel.”

She looked at him seriously. “Leon, you realise that if Gethin… if Gethin isn’t well enough to take on Carmelide, that makes you the heir.”

He blinked. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, but he saw it now with startling clarity. After Gethin, he was the oldest of Leodegrance’s sons. If the worst should happen, he would inherit the lands, the castle, the title… all of it.

“No.” He shook his head. “I pledged myself to Camelot. I’m a knight of Camelot before I’m a son of Carmelide.”

“I knew you’d say that,” she said, her mouth curving upwards in a smile. “You’re my brother before you’re either of those things, after all.”

Leon considered. After Gethin and himself there was Geoff, who had taken holy orders and could inherit nothing. And then Owain - ten-year-old Owain, who could no more rule an earldom than he could wield a longsword or ride a warhorse. A good thing that Leon’s father was still hale and healthy, although he was no longer young and his imprisonment in the dungeon had probably taken more of a toll than he cared to admit. Leon found himself wishing more than ever that Gethin would recover, and soon. He had no desire to be placed in a position where he had to choose between Carmelide and Camelot.

“I knew you probably hadn’t thought of it, either,” said Olwen, licking honey off her fingers. “But you should. Although let’s hope you never have to.”

Leon couldn’t smile. “Let’s hope.”

 

*     *     *

 

“I was thinking of something Rience said. Before he died.”

“Sire?” Arthur was pale and still too weak to leave his chambers, but he was alert and - typically - already bored enough to be considering his next movements. He called for his senior knights at regular intervals, and Leon’s current status as ‘local expert’ meant that he was summoned more than most.

“Morgana. He said that I didn’t know where my sister was, but that he did. He must have meant Morgana.”

Merlin’s head came up from where he was polishing Arthur’s newly-mended armour in the corner, his expression troubled. “You think he was telling the truth?”

“We’ve searched the kingdom ten times over by now.” The prince was frowning. “Whoever kidnapped her likely took her across the borders. Or by sea…”

“To Ireland, you mean?” asked Leon, following his thoughts. “Where Rience had recently seized power.”

“Perhaps he does know something of it,” mused Arthur. “Her father was from Ireland originally, wasn’t he?”

“Sir Gorlois,” said Leon. “My father fought alongside him. A good man.”

“You think she might have returned to her father’s people? Gone home?” asked Merlin.

Arthur shot him a look. “Her _home_ is Camelot,” he said, pointedly. “Wherever she is, she cannot have gone willingly.” His brows darkened in a frown. “But it is possible that she had family there who were unhappy she had been fostered at Camelot. I hadn’t thought of that before.”

“You’re saying she could have been kidnapped by her own family?” said Merlin, looking anxious.

“It would explain why Rience claimed to know what had happened to her.”

“More likely he was lying, sire,” pointed out Leon. “Trying to unsettle you to sway the fight in his favour.”

Arthur sighed. “It’s possible. And I don’t even know if she has any other family left. Surely they would have come forwards before now?” He sat back against the bedclothes gingerly. “Rience must have been lying. And he’s dead now, so we’ll never know for sure.”

Leon heard the bitterness in his voice and felt the reproach. He had, after all, been the one to end the man’s life - although with the prince’s sword in his chest, it was doubtful how long the rebel king would have survived in any case.

“Ireland,” mused Arthur. “It’s without a king now. Someone will take the throne soon enough.”

“An ally or an enemy?” asked Merlin.

“Hard to say. No-one knows what happened to the old king’s sons. If Rience didn’t manage to kill them, perhaps one will take the throne. If not…” Arthur shrugged and then winced. “We have no control over it. The Irish don’t like outsiders meddling in their affairs.” He closed his eyes for a few seconds, his face drawn and the fire throwing his features into sharp relief. “How is your brother, Leon?”

He was surprised by the sudden change of subject. “He’s… still weak.” Gethin’s fever rose and fell, but at least sometimes he recognised his family now. That was an improvement, small though it was.

Arthur didn’t open his eyes. “We’ll be moving on as soon as possible.” He sighed, heavily. “If you want to stay here, Leon, I understand.”

Leon blinked in surprise and saw Merlin glance over at the prince, eyebrows raised. “I… sire?”

“I’ll be sad to lose you, and my father certainly won’t thank me for it.” Arthur had opened his eyes now, and his stare was uncomfortably direct. “But you have a duty to your family as well as to Camelot.”

It took a few seconds to find his voice. “Thank you, but… My duty to Camelot comes first, sire. Always.”

Arthur held his eyes for a few seconds more and then nodded once. “Good.” He closed his eyes, leaning back against the bedclothes as his features softened into a smile. “Then you’ll need to chose one of the new squires as soon as we get back. I’m not having a second-in-command who doesn’t even have his own squire.”

This time Leon really was speechless. “Sire?” he managed, after a few seconds of struggling against his own shock.

Arthur grinned. “I mean, if you don’t want the position, that’s fine, but…”

Leon could hardly believe what he was hearing. Prince Arthur was offering him the highest position possible. Second-in-command to the prince. He had never even dared believe that it was possible. And now Arthur was staring at him, still grinning, waiting for his answer. It took him a few seconds to find his words.

“Sire, I - I would be honoured,” he managed.

“I was hoping you would say that,” said Arthur, briskly. “There’s no-one I trust more.”

“He was terrified you’d want to stay here and he’d have to find someone else,” said Merlin, looking almost smug. Prince Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“Leon, your first job as my second-in-command is to find something suitable for me to throw at him,” he said, glaring at Merlin. His manservant twitched an eyebrow in response.

“After all I do for you. That’s ingratitude.”

“I’ll have you know that it’s considered an honour to be a servant in the royal household.”

“Only by people who haven’t met you. I’m lucky your aim is so bad, really.”

“ _Bad aim?_ If it weren’t for this wound, Merlin, I would strangle you myself.”

Leon was glad of their bickering: for one, it proved that Arthur was well on the way to recovering, and for another, it gave him time to swallow the lump in his throat. _There’s no-one I trust more_. That meant a lot.

 

*     *     *

 

For all of Arthur’s optimism, it was another week before he was well enough to even move around the castle freely, let alone travel. It was just as well; despite the steely-eyed authority of Lord and Lady Leodegrance overseeing everything, there was a formidable amount of organisation to be done, and all of Camelot’s commanders were kept busy.

_They never mention this part in the stories_ , reflected Leon wryly, skimming over yet another list of supplies and equipment being packed up for the journey back to Camelot. Hardly surprising; it wasn’t the most exciting aspect of rescuing a kingdom from an invading army. The endless planning. Waiting for the injured men to heal enough to travel. Keeping the uninjured men from starting a rebellion out of sheer restlessness. Working out how to _feed_ everyone.

At least they were almost ready to leave now. They would be leaving behind some of the worst-injured - among them Benifred, who had made a remarkable recovery but certainly wasn’t up to travelling. His friend seemed oddly cheerful about his lot, though, which Leon suspected might have something to do with the fact that Olwen had taken an interest in helping him convalesce. He pushed _that_ disturbing thought to the back of his mind and tried to focus on the matters at hand.

At least his brother was healing well. For a while none of them had been sure that Gethin would pull though. It had been serious enough that Maureen hadn’t left his chambers for a full eight days, even to eat. But finally his fever had dropped and he had begun to eat again, and now he was still weak but well enough to hold a conversation. A relief to everyone, particularly Leon. Despite his conviction with Prince Arthur, he had been inwardly wrestling with the question of divided loyalties ever since Olwen had brought it up - and even though he knew in his heart that he would never have abandoned Camelot, it hadn’t stopped him feeling guilty about it…

He dragged his mind back to the supply list for what felt like the twentieth time, staring at the list of numbers until they blurred on the page in front of him. It was no good. He had been at it all morning; his mind just refused to focus any more. He sighed and gave it up, walking to the window instead to look out over the valley below. It was almost spring, now, although the mountains were still snow-capped and the countryside was swathed in mist. In a few weeks, the lower valleys would be carpeted in flowers. New growth for a new year.

It had been over a year since the Lady Morgana had gone missing; over a year since he had been promoted to commander; over a year since the dragon. He had changed a lot, he knew. At times he had been afraid of how much.

He ran a finger over one of the scars on his forearm; the faint white marks where the burns had etched chainmail-links into his skin. All scars faded with time, even if some were permanent. He remembered the uncontrollable panic he had used to struggle against at the mere thought of ‘dragon’. Those scars faded as well. They would keep fading, even if they never completely disappeared. They couldn’t change who he was, or what he fought for.

Because he knew that he would always have something worth fighting for.

For Camelot.


	15. Epilogue

_“So. Who are you going to pick?”_

_Kay, as usual, looked as though he had just spent the afternoon enjoying himself in a tavern rather than the long, weary monotony of days on the march. They were still days from Camelot, and the slow pace of the supply wagons they were protecting meant that it would be days more before they reached the city. It was frustratingly dull - for once, Leon was almost glad of the blonde knight’s endless chatter._

_“Who am I going to pick?”_

_“For squire. Arthur said you’ve got to pick a squire, right? So who’s it going to be?”_

_“I hadn’t thought,” said Leon, honestly. He considered. “You had your money on Samor, yes? For the ribbon game?”_

_“Boy’s got talent. Plus, Sir Sagramore has a ring to it, don’t you think? I mean, bit of a mouthful for everyday use - can see why you’d shorten it - but it sounds classy, no?”_

_“They’ve all got talent,” said Leon, thinking. He would have to pick one of the squires to take on, when they returned to Camelot - and since training a squire took six years at least, it was not a decision to take lightly. “Perhaps Pip. He’s raw, and he doesn’t trust himself often, but his instincts are excellent.”_

_Kay laughed. “Trust you to chose the quiet one. But I have to warn you, ‘Sir Pip’ is not a name to put in the songs and tales. Probably just as well - you’re not the glory-seeking type either. Not like me.” He winked good-naturedly._

_Leon chuckled. “You know, his name isn’t actually Pip. It’s a nickname.”_

_“What’s his real name, then? Can’t be worse than Sagramore. Although there’s a Bedevere in this lot as well, god help him. I’m sure parents didn’t name their children like this in our day.”_

_“Galahad.”_

_“Bloody hell. I’d go with Pip as well. Poor kid. You aren’t going to pick up women with a name like Galahad.”_

_“Which is, of course, the sole reason to become a knight of Camelot,” said Leon, straight-faced._

_“If there’s any other reason, I don’t want to hear about it,” said Kay, cheerfully. “You should try it sometime, Leon. The ladies love a heroic knight in shining armour.”_

_“And since when were you a heroic knight in shining armour?”_

_“That is the point of getting a squire, Leon,” Kay declared. “To polish my armour.”_

_“I feel sorry for whoever you choose already. Are you going to teach them how to fight at any point, or is it just how to seduce innocent maidens?”_

_“Whereas your poor Sir Pip won’t realise that girls and wine exist until he’s thirty.” Kay grinned. “I know who I’d rather-”_

_The conversation was interrupted by movement at the front of the column; a figure on horseback, clattering through the mist ahead of them. Both knights tensed until the figure came closer and it was clear that he was wearing Camelot colours._

_The messenger galloped along the column, reining to a stop in front of Leon and Kay, his horse breathing hard and lathered in sweat._

_“What is it?” asked Leon._

_“I’ve come from Prince Arthur,” the man said. Leon and Kay exchanged glances._

_“What’s wrong? Fighting? Is he hurt?”_

_“There was an attack on one of the vanguard units, sir. The Prince led a troop to investigate. They discovered a druid settlement. There was some fighting, but it’s not that, sir, it’s… Prince Arthur wanted me to tell you, sir.”_

_Leon realised that he was gripping the reins tightly. The man would have said immediately if the Prince needed help, but something about his urgency put him on edge. “What? What is it?”_

_“It’s the Lady Morgana, sir. She’s been found.”_


End file.
